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M.E.MAYNARD 





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COPYRIGHT DEPOSIT 





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OUR LITTLE PITCHERS 


This book was set up, printed 
and bound by The Nyvall Print 
of 1876 Broadway, New York. 


IN PREPARATION 

THE LITTLE PITCHERS TRY FARMING 
THE LITTLE PITCHERS IN GERMANY 






A f 
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u How do you like your picture? 


Our Little Pitchers 


A Budget of True Tales Concern- 
ing the Funny Adventures of 
Four Children 

By M. E. MAYNARD 

J n 


With Illustrations by James E. Kelly 



NEW YORK 
THE NYVALL PRINT 

19 13 


Copyright , 1913 
By M. E. MA YNARD 





TO MY MOTHER 


Sweet one , how sure is the loveligbt 
Deep in thy beautiful eyes; 

Lending to others its radiant 
Spirit that never dies. 

Oft have I dreamed that affection 
Was mine , and have waked to gaze 

At shadow form ever changing , 

Swift in the mirage haze. 

Then I behold in its glory , 

Light as though poured from above: 

A guide in the darkness shining 
Constant, a mother s love. 



CONTENTS 


CHAPTER PAGE 

I Introduction to the Little Pitchers 13 

II The Empty Lot .... 21 

III “Our Own Compositions” . 34 

IV The Little Sister .... 43 

V The Nurse’s Story ... 49 

VI Easter 66 

VII The Sermon .... 78 

VIII A Day in the Country ... 88 

IX The Birthday .... 109 

X The Visit of a Week . . .122 

XI The Gypsy Camp . . . 133 

XII “The Ewer” .... 157 

XIII Christmas 172 

XIV The Play 180 

XV The Twelfth Night Party . 190 



LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS 


How do you like your picture? ” 

Frontispiece ^ 

The big hole in the fence ” . 

27 ^ 

Our own compositions ” . 

39 ^ 

The poorest kind of roof ” . 

. . 61 ^ 

The hills rising into the heaven ” 

85^ 

Mr. Gentleman, the island is sinking ! ” 99 

Happy birthday to all ! ” . 

. 119 ' 

Shut your eyes tight ” 

. 127 'S 

Oh, don’t, don’t go on ” . 

149 ^ 

You must be good ” 

. 159 

The battle raged ” . 

165 ^ 

Now take seven steps ” 

. 177 ^ 

Don’t look at the audience ” . 

183 ' 








A 
























































































Our Little Pitchers 


CHAPTER I 

Introduction to Our Little Pitchers 

I AM going, my dear children, to tell you 
all about four very funny little beings, 
who actually lived, and whose pranks, 
plays, and escapades recorded in this story, 
are true. I ought to know, for I happen 
to have been one of the Little Pitchers. 

There were William, Morgan, and Anne, 
and another little girl whom her dear 
father nicknamed “All Heart,” because 
he so plainly saw that she had more heart 
than head, a fact she has long since found 
out, many times to her sorrow; and by 
that name you will learn to know her in 
this book. She and Anne were a loving 
pair, although they were quite different 
in every way. They were constant com- 
panions and sympathetic playmates. Anne 
13 


OUR LITTLE PITCHERS 


was entirely without fear, strong-willed, 
always the leader, and a remarkable little 
artist for her years. All Heart was poetic, 
dreamy, and easily led. Her love of poetry 
developed so young, she loved to listen to 
poems read before she could understand 
what they meant; and began when her 
hand was too small to hold a pencil, to 
jingle little rhymes, and beg her mother 
to write them down, which the devoted 
parent did, without altering a word, and 
which greatly amused All Heart in after 
years. She had an extraordinary con- 
sideration for people's feelings. Once, in 
a hotel, she ate a stale egg because she 
feared to hurt the waiter who brought it 
to her ; and, one day, cried bitterly when a 
poor organ-grinder was deserted by a 
crowd of children he had been amusing, 
for some Italian harpists and violinists 
some one told them were playing in the 
next street. 

The children's father was a rector of a 
large parish, and in spite of his many, 
many cares and church duties, he labored 
to make his home a paradise for his chil- 
dren ; and many of the children of his par- 
14 


OUR LITTLE PITCHERS 


ishioners thought for them, too ! Both the 
Rector and his wife said that, whatever 
trials their babies had in store for them, 
it would be no fault of theirs, if they did 
not look back upon a happy childhood. 
Ah, how truly did they realize their hopes ! 
When manhood and womanhood brought 
the Little Pitchers what comes to all who 
do not die young, the memory of those 
bright days gave many an hour of peace 
and comfort. 

Perhaps some of your parents have 
heard the dear father of these little ones, 
in his pulpit, earnestly exhorting his flock 
to greater spiritual life, to bring up their 
families in holiness ; and have been stirred 
by his great eloquence, and love for the 
Branch of the Church for which he fought 
and gave his life. And yet his own little 
children and their happiness were never 
forgotten in the home nest, and they could 
not once remember having heard an un- 
kind word from his lips. 

There are those among us who re- 
member the delightful birthday parties, 
the merry Christmas Eve gatherings, the 
unique and unrivaled Twelfth Night en- 
15 


OUR LITTLE PITCHERS 


tertainments at the Rectory, that were, as 
a little guest once remarked, “just like 
reading a fairy tale.” 

“I pity other children,” said All Heart 
one day, busy pasting pictures in a scrap- 
book, “they don’t any of them have half 
such good times as we do.” 

“And their parties are so stupid,” said 
Anne; “they just sit round and stare at 
each other, and then can’t think of any- 
thing to play but ‘Oats, peas, beans and 
barley grows,’ and ‘Pillows and keys.’ ” 

“Then some one plays a polka on the 
piano,” added All Heart, “and a few get 
up and dance, and the others look on, and 
then they eat ice cream and go home.” 

“Their mammas and papas don’t know 
what fun is,” said Morgan, who was 
building a house of blocks. “Let’s give 
three cheers for our Mamma and Papa,” 
and the shouts brought Auntie to the 
stairs with : 

“Children, a little less noise, please; 
papa is busy with his sermon.” 

The play-room was at the top of the 
Rectory, the whole length and breadth of 
the house, and contained everything that 
16 


OUR LITTLE PITCHERS 


could bring joy and pleasure to children’s 
hearts. In one corner was the art studio, 
where a big table held scrap-books, paper, 
blank books, pencils, a box of water colors 
for each child, and all that was necessary 
to bring out any latent artistic talent there 
might be in the Little Pitchers. Near that, 
another table where two work-baskets 
could always be found, well stocked with 
sewing materials, from tiny thimbles to 
threads of all colors. Round pointed scis- 
sors were fastened on long chains and 
screwed to the table, so the boys could not 
take them away and lose them. And there 
wonderful hats were trimmed for the 
dolls, dresses cut, gored and sewn. Then 
came the four-story doll house, carpeted 
and curtained, and completely furnished 
from garret to kitchen, not forgetting the 
tiny occupants, all dressed appropriately 
by auntie and mamma. Chandeliers hung 
from the ceilings, and a sideboard in the 
dining-room had in its drawers the small- 
est knives, forks, and spoons one ever saw. 
And in the drawing-room actually stood 
a piano, on which one could almost play a 
tune, regardless of the fact that there 
17 


OUR LITTLE PITCHERS 


were only five notes, and those somewhat 
out of proportion. A huge rocking-horse 
on springs came next ; all four Little 
Pitchers would sometimes mount — two 
on the front prancing legs — and rocking 
furiously back and forth, would sing at 
the top of their lungs: “Glory, glory, 
hallelujah!” 

The large dolls had their room, where 
every night they were put to bed by Anne 
and All Heart, in the prettiest of little 
bedsteads, with snowy sheets and spreads 
and pillows, made also by the loving hands 
of auntie and mamma. Little bureaus and 
dressing-tables, all in proportion, were 
there, and kept in perfect order. Then 
there was the schoolroom, where a black- 
board was securely fastened into the wall, 
supplied with chalk and rubber. A frame 
of wires on which colored beads were 
strung for counting, and a pile of 
old school books on a stand were 
there. All Heart was generally teacher, 
and kept strict discipline. Beside that 
was the library, where the well-filled 
bookcase stood. Among the many books 
were “Robinson Crusoe,” “Swiss Family 
18 


OUR LITTLE PITCHERS 


Robinson,” poems for All Heart, the 
Prudy and Dotty Dimple series, and all the 
works of the much-beloved Aunt Fanny 
Barrow, who wrote such interesting, true 
stories of little children she knew. The 
Little Pitchers loved her as if she were 
their own auntie, and you may be sure 
they were not forgotten in her writings. 

If any of our readers will look among 
“The Pop Gun Series,” they will find there 
a strictly true story of a wonderful birth- 
day party given at the home of the Little 
Pitchers. 

We must not forget to speak of all the 
chairs and stools needed for the various 
plays. And, to crown all, at one end of 
the room was a stage with curtain and 
footlights, where many a play was acted 
before some fair-sized audiences. With 
all this, there was plenty of room for 
races, football, battledore and shuttlecock, 
and like sports. 

One might find mothers and fathers 
now, who have raced and played in that 
big room, and who could tell of All Heart’s 
poems recited from the stage, the funny 
plays acted, the monthly paper edited by 
19 


OUR LITTLE PITCHERS 


William, and little Anne’s remarkable 
animals in pencil and water color. The 
writer of this has two lovely paintings, 
framed and on her walls, of pictures done 
without help by her sister Anne at ten 
years of age. And if any of you dear chil- 
dren doubt it, come to her and she will 
show them to you. 

Morgan’s architectural drawings were 
by no means to be despised; and William 
seemed more fond of giving material for 
the small theatre than anything else. 

And now that you have been introduced 
to the Little Pitchers, we hope that after 
you have finished reading all about their 
quaint doings, you and they will be the 
best of friends. 


20 


CHAPTER II 
The Empty Lot 

T HE events of this little story of Anne 
and All Heart happened when they 
were very small; too little to know how 
wrong and even dangerous it was for them 
to run away together alone, and give 
anxiety and suffering to their dear care- 
takers at home. They were so young then 
they had not been to school, although All 
Heart could read her tiny primer from 
cover to cover, and add and subtract, and 
Anne used a pencil with wonderful ease, 
and drew animals and houses and hills 
that astounded everybody, even fine 
artists, who are supposed to be very 
critical. 

It happened one day that the good Rec- 
tor and his wife were called away from 
the city, and left home and children in 

21 


OUR LITTLE PITCHERS 


care of dear Aunt Susan and grandma. 
The children loved “Auntie Toodie,”as they 
called her — the name one gave her before 
he could pronounce the letter “S.” And 
grandma, too, was very dear to them ; but 
when the precious parents left home, tears 
flowed freely, and they counted the hours 
until they could rush into mamma's and 
papa's arms again. All Heart would some- 
times take pencil and paper, and write 
down the npmber of hours the parents 
were to be away ; then, as the time passed, 
check them off one by one, saying, “It 
seems to make the time pass quicker." 

The Little Pitchers waved a last fare- 
well on the Rectory steps, as they saw, 
through a mist of tears, mamma and papa, 
the latter with a big valise, drive away; 
and then, childlike, dried their eyes, and 
began to look for something with which 
to amuse themselves. A boy called and 
asked Willie and Morgan to go home with 
him to play with his little brother, who 
was confined to the house with a broken 
arm; and they went happily off, their 
arms laden with books and toys. Anne 
and All Heart looked after them rather 
22 


OUR LITTLE PITCHERS 


dolefully, wishing they too had been in- 
vited. They sat on a wide window-sill 
long after the brothers had gone, and 
watched the passers-by, Anne taking most 
interest in the horses, having a passionate 
love for that animal. 

“I wish I had a horse,” she said at last. 

“What would you do with it, where 
would you keep it?” said All Heart. 

“In the yard, of course, and feed him 
with hay, myself. The man in the stable 
at the corner would give me plenty. Then 
I could tie him up against the fence and 
draw him.” 

“What would you do if it rained?” said 
All Heart, getting practical. 

Anne looked thoughtful, and at last 
answered : 

“Ask papa to get a man to build a shed.” 

“And you might sometimes let him run 
round in an empty lot,” added All Heart; 
“there’s ever and ever so many in New 
York.” 

“Mamma told me yesterday that when 
you spoke of more than one thing, you 
must say ‘t-h-e-r-e a-r-e,’ ” said Anne, 
speaking the last words very slowly. 

23 


OUR LITTLE PITCHERS 


All Heart did not pay much attention to 
the correction, in her eagerness to tell her 
sister something that had just entered her 
mind: 

“Oh, Anne, I saw the other day, when 
Auntie was taking me out for a walk, 
such a lovely place to play in — grass, a 
tree, rocks, some big stones and boards, 
that would make a grand see-saw. It's 
only a little way from here, down so — ” 
All Heart pointed to the West. “And I 
saw a big hole in the fence, where we 
could get through.” 

Anne was now thoroughly interested. 

“Let’s go!” 

“When?” 

“Now, of course.” 

They scrambled down from the window- 
sill, and ran up to their room, and began 
to pull out hats from boxes, and little coats 
from closets. 

Then All Heart suddenly said : 

“What do you say to changing clothes? 
You put on mine, and I’ll put on yours, 
then you'll be me and I’ll be you. We'll 
play ‘each other' and I'll call you by my 
name and you call me ‘Anne'.” 

24 


OUR LITTLE PITCHERS 


Anne was quite ready for this absurd 
game, and soon they were clothed in each 
other's shoes, frocks, gloves, hats and 
coats. 

Anne found it difficult to button her 
dress band round All Heart's waist. 

“Breathe out, All Heart," she said, “and 
then perhaps I can squeeze it together." 

With much pulling and tugging it was 
at last fastened, and All Heart, looking 
very uncomfortable, but resigned, sug- 
gested taking a pin with them, in case the 
button should burst off. She limped in 
Anne's shoes, for she was her elder by 
twelve months ; but she would not for the 
world spoil the play, so bravely tried to 
hide the pain ; and Anne looked very 
funny in clothes much too big for her. 

Now auntie and grandma thought the 
little girls were with Nurse Clark, and 
Nurse, who was having a pleasant time 
in the kitchen, with the cook and one of 
her friends, thought they were with their 
aunt; so the children were not missed for 
some time after they slipped down stairs, 
and out of the front door. They started 
West, Anne shuffling along in All Heart's 
25 


OUR LITTLE PITCHERS 


big shoes, and her skirt a few inches from 
the ground — her sister limping beside 
her. 

“Now,” said All Heart, “you must try to 
act like me, and I'll act like you.” 

“But I don't limp like you.” 

“And I don't shuffle like you,” retorted 
All Heart. “I don't believe you are half 
as uncomfortable as I am.” 

They soon reached the lot, which really 
was not far from the Rectory, and 
crawled through the big hole in the fence. 
The ground was uneven. In one corner, 
reaching almost up to the top of the high 
fence, was a hill, on which were a few 
spears of grass, and a miserable little 
tree, hardly deserving the name, all 
struggling to thrive in very poor soil. 
Against the brick wall of a building which 
faced another street, was a tumbled-down 
old shed that once had been of some use. 
There were rocks, and sand, and old 
boards scattered round, and an ash and 
rubbish heap in one corner ; the last place 
in the world where two carefully nurtured 
and tenderly brought up little ones should 
be playing all alone. But their Heavenly 
26 



“The big hole in the fence 




OUR LITTLE PITCHERS 


Father was taking care of them. Perhaps 
some dear ones “gone before” were hover- 
ing round and keeping danger away. 

At any rate, they had no fear or appre- 
hension, and thought it a fine playground. 

All Heart, in a dramatic and sentimental 
frame of mind, commenced the play of 
“Orphans,” and in a sepulchral tone said : 

“Now we must pretend we're two little 
orphans, without a home; all alone in the 
wide world. This is the world,” with a 
sweep of her hand. “We are tired, and 
hungry, and thirsty ; we will wander round 
and round, and sit and rest on that beauti- 
ful lawn, and then go to that great castle 
on the hill, and ask for a piece of bread 
and some water.” 

Anne looked at the dry, yellow grass, 
and the old shed, and if All Heart's doleful 
picture of their supposed condition had 
not already begun to have a very gloomy 
effect upon her, I think she would have 
burst out laughing. Instead, she allowed 
herself to be led round and round the lot, 
and then they seated themselves under the 
poor stick of a tree, and tried very hard 
to look unhappy. 


29 


OUR LITTLE PITCHERS 


“Now, my little sister,” said All Heart 
in the same doleful tones, “we will go to 
the castle, and beg for some food.” 

But Anne did not stir. 

“I don’t want to play this game.” 

“Why not?” 

“Because it makes me sad.” 

“But it isn’t true.” 

“I don’t care, I want to play something 
with more ‘merriness’ in it.” 

So the play was stopped, and they suc- 
ceeded, with a good deal of hard work, to 
place a light board over a stone, and made 
a see-saw, which amused them some time. 
They only regretted that they could not 
go up very far in the air. 

At last, tired of playing hide-and-seek 
and tag, they looked over the rubbish heap 
to see if they could find anything they 
thought good enough to take home and add 
to their treasures. They selected a feather 
out of an old hat, two or three brass but- 
tons, and some old bits of iron, and put 
them away in their pockets. 

It was beginning to get quite dark now, 
and both began to feel that they had been 
away a long time, and the sight of home 
30 


OUR LITTLE PITCHERS 


would be very pleasant ; so they found the 
hole in the fence, and just as they reached 
the sidewalk they felt themselves seized 
by the arms, and heard the familiar voice 
of Nurse Clark say: 

“You naughty, bad children! Sure and 
your auntie and grandma are ’most dead 
wid froit. Aren’t ye ashamed o’ ye- 
selves ?” 

As they approached the Rectory they 
saw their dear auntie on the steps, and 
grandma’s head out of the window of her 
room, and when they noticed that auntie 
had been crying, they knew that they had 
done wrong, and burst into tears them- 
selves. 

When they were first missed, every nook 
and corner of the Rectory were searched, 
from cellar to fourth floor. Then began the 
search up and down the street, in all the 
candy and toy shops on the avenue nearby. 
People were questioned, and some of the 
neighbors started out to look for the miss- 
ing ones, puzzled to decide which way to 
turn. 

When five o’clock came, poor auntie was 
in despair, wringing her hands and declar- 
31 


OUR LITTLE PITCHERS 


ing she never would be left alone with the 
children again. Nurse Clark, whose con- 
science troubled her a good deal for not 
keeping better watch over her charges, 
flew up and down the street, asking every 
one she met if he had seen two little girls 
alone. She questioned at last a neighbor 
who had just returned to his home, very 
near the Rectory, and he told her he did 
remember having seen the clergyman’s 
little daughters the early part of the after- 
noon alone, walking towards the West 
Side. Nurse Clark did not wait to thank 
him, but flew in the direction indicated, 
and soon, as you already know, spied the 
little runaways just starting home. 

Auntie had decided to appeal to the 
police, when she saw Nurse Clark coming 
between her two very crestfallen nieces. 
She was too happy to scold them ; instead, 
she clasped them in her arms and said : 

“Oh, darlings ! How could you frighten 
poor auntie so ?” 

Grandma, too, when she saw how re- 
pentant the little runaways were, told 
them how good it was to see them again, 
and added: 


32 


OUR LITTLE PITCHERS 


“Now just stand up there and let's 
take a look at you, so auntie and I can 
really believe you have come back to us 
safe and sound." 

And then All Heart and Anne saw a 
puzzled look come over their faces, and 
auntie said: 

“Why, children, what have you on? 
How strangely dressed you are!" 

“Why, we thought we'd play ‘each 
other,' " said All Heart brokenly, the tears 
still in her eyes; “so we changed clothes, 
and I was Anne and she was All Heart." 

Both little girls wondered greatly, and 
did not understand for at least two years, 
why auntie and grandma fell to laughing 
so hard they could not speak. 


33 


CHAPTER III 


“Our Own Compositions” 

N URSE CLARK’S sister’s little baby 
was ill, very ill. Anne and All 
Heart had been to see her, with nurse. 
They came away, thoughtful and rather 
saddened. The cramped tenement-house 
home, the general dinginess and want of 
tidiness, the dark bed-room where the 
child lay ill — all in such bitter contrast to 
their own home — depressed them. They 
had overheard the remark that the baby 
must have special food there was no money 
to buy, and, alone in the playroom that 
afternoon, they talked it over. 

“How could we raise some money for 
them?” said All Heart. “People do raise 
money for the poor, and call it charity.” 

“I’ve heard of poets making money out 
of their writings,” said Anne, “and 
painters out of their pictures. Suppose 
we sell ours. Only who would we ask, — 
our friends?” 

“Oh, no, we couldn’t,” said All Heart, 
34 


OUR LITTLE PITCHERS 


who was sensitive and retiring, and had a 
natural instinct against all barter among 
friends. 

“Then let's sell 'em to strangers. I'm 
not afraid to ask them.'' 

Anne shrank at nothing to gain a point. 
And All Heart was now beginning to feel 
that the leading strings were in her sis- 
ter's hands, and a willingness to be led. 
She had at times great confidence in 
Anne's judgment. 

“Where will we find the strangers, 
Anne?'' 

“Why, all we'll have to do, is to go out 
in front of the house and stand there, and, 
as the people go by, tell them we have our 
own compositions for sale for a sick baby, 
and charge five cents apiece for them. We 
may raise a dollar." 

“Good! We’ll go to work right now. 
But how about ink? My poems shouldn't 
be in pencil ; and mamma won't let us have 
any more ink by ourselves since I tipped a 
bottleful over my dress the other day, and 
spoiled it. I can only write with ink now 
when auntie and mamma are with me." 

They both mused, and did not speak for 
35 


OUR LITTLE PITCHERS 


some minutes. There was a silent recog- 
nition of the fact, on both sides, that it 
would not be the best thing for the enter- 
prise to confide in either auntie or mamma. 

“I know,” suddenly cried Anne ; “I once 
took a pencil and dipped it in water, and 
it really made the writing look just like 
ink.” 

“We’ll try it. Now for a cup of water, 
pencils and paper, and then to work!” 
said All Heart with an important air. 

Silence reigned for some time, broken 
only by the scratching of the children’s 
pencils. They worked diligently, but the 
progress was slow, and they found they 
could not finish all the work they had laid 
out before tea and bedtime. But, on the 
afternoon of the day following, the two 
little would-be peddlers, with their wares, 
went quietly out of the front door. Anne 
held the papers, and All Heart a calico 
bag for the money. The latter paused and 
looked frightened; but Anne pulled her 
by the hand. 

“Oh, come along, ‘Fraidy’!” 

But even Anne was seized with some- 
thing like shyness when they actually 
36 


OUR LITTLE PITCHERS 


faced the most important part of their 
work. However, she quickly overcame it. 
The first few people who passed, they did 
not think worth while to approach, be- 
cause they looked shabby and poor ; but, as 
an old man appeared round the corner, 
All Heart pushed Anne in front of her, 
shrinking back herself. Anne was quite 
equal to the occasion. 

“Please, sir — we have — " 

“What?” said the man, bending down 
his head, and putting his hand behind his 
ear. 

“Please," shouted Anne, “we want to 
raise money for a poor baby who is ill. 
These are our own compositions, and 
they're five cents apiece." 

The man nodded: “Yes, yes. School 
compositions. I have little grandchildren 
who write them for school. Good practice, 
good practice. Can't see without my 
glasses," as Anne held up some papers for 
him to examine. “Study hard — study 
hard — be good girl." And with a nod and 
smile he trudged on. 

Next came a tall woman, who held her- 
self very straight and her head high. 

37 


OUR LITTLE PITCHERS 


“Please — Miss — Mrs. — these are our 
own compositions. We want five cents 
apiece for them, for a poor baby, who 
almost died.” 

The woman raised a lorgnette to her 
eyes, and gazed down, first on the papers, 
and then at the two children, a long, 
withering gaze, not at all comforting or 
encouraging, after which she drawled out : 

“What ex-tra-or-di-nary children,” and 
walked majestically away. 

“Do let's go home, and give it up,” said 
All Heart weakening. 

“If we do,” said Anne stoutly, “all our 
work will go for nothing, and we won't 
get any money for the baby. Here's a 
crowd. I'll go for them!” 

Five or six underbred, boisterous young 
men and women, all evidently friends, and 
making themselves conspicuous with loud 
talking and laughter, neared the Rectory. 
Anne felt confident she saw a gold mine 
coming. 

“Please, ladies and gentlemen — ” There 
was a sudden cessation of noise, and they 
all looked curiously at the little figure. 

38 


Our own compositions 








OUR LITTLE PITCHERS 


“These are our own compositions — my 
pictures and my sister’s poems. They are 
five cents apiece, and we want the money 
for a baby that’s ill.” 

One big, rude boy snatched a paper out 
of Anne’s hand, and waved it in the air, 
saying : 

“Not bad, but it looks more like a cow 
than a dog.” 

Another took one of the poems, and 
began to read it to himself, but suddenly 
shouted : 

“Hey — listen, all — how’s this? Tenny- 
son is nowhere beside it. 

‘The Little Chicken. 

Mother, mother, come and look, 

The treasure I have found. 

A little chicken on a crook. 

How pretty when it gives a bound !’ ” 

The loud, coarse shriek of laughter that 
followed was too much for All Heart. She 
hurriedly took all the papers from Anne’s 
hands, and rushed like one pursued to the 
Rectory, and up the steps, Anne following 
and begging her to come back, and help 
her make those dreadful people give them 
41 


OUR LITTLE PITCHERS 


the price of the picture and poem they had 
taken. 

When they landed in the hall All Heart 
was sobbing bitterly, and little Anne had 
tears of real sympathy in her eyes. 

“What’s the matter, what’s the matter?” 
came papa’s voice on the stairs. And then 
slowly the story came out. 

“They laughed at my poem,” sobbed All 
Heart, “and called Anne’s dog a cow.” 

The Rector took his little girls in his 
arms, and told them they had tried hard 
to do good, but that that was not a very 
nice way to raise money, and their tears 
were soon dried, and replaced by bright 
smiles, when he took all the pictures and 
poems, and gave them a crisp, new dollar 
bill to give to Nurse Clark for her sister’s 
baby. 

They were too happy to notice that their 
father ran very quickly upstairs and into 
his library, with his handkerchief before 
his face. 


42 


CHAPTER IV 


The Little Sister 
LL HEART had started home from 



* ** school one day, not in the best of 
tempers. She was alone ; Anne had a cold, 
and had been kept at home. All Heart 
was feeling keenly the fact of three fail- 
ures placed on record in the schoolroom, 
one she felt quite unjustly put there. The 
word had been spelled correctly, but the 
“i” had not been dotted, and it angered 
her when she thought of its being added 
to the list of mis-spelled words. She rang 
the bell, and Anne, who had been anxiously 
watching for her, opened the door hur- 
riedly. She and Morgan were together 
and their faces wreathed in smiles. They 
both spoke in chorus : 

“What do you think we have — guess?” 

All Heart was not in a mood for guess- 
ing some new toy she fancied had been 
given them, and continued to look doleful 


43 


OUR LITTLE PITCHERS 


and quite indifferent to Anne’s and Mor- 
gan’s happiness. 

“Oh, All Heart, you will be so happy 
when you hear!” and, unable to keep back 
the good news any longer, Anne cried: 

“A sister — a real, live, dear little sister, 
and I’ve seen her!” 

All Heart’s great surprise was soon fol- 
lowed by such joy, that regrets and sense 
of injustice done no longer troubled her. 
What difference did anything make ; what 
did she care if she had forty failures at 
school or none, now that a dear baby sister 
had come to them. 

Auntie appeared on the stairs and told 
All Heart, if she promised to be very quiet, 
she could have a peep at the baby. They 
tip-toed softly into the room where mamma 
and infant were sleeping sweetly and All 
Heart could hardly keep still when she saw 
the new little sister with her head on a 
tiny pillow. Only one look was allowed, 
and then two very happy children ran 
upstairs, where they shut themselves in a 
room so far from their mother’s they felt 
they could give way to feelings of joy with 
some noise. 


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All interests after centered on the new 
sister. Plans of what they would do for 
her, when she grew larger, were discussed 
by the hour; and when they were asked 
what they were doing, when found sewing, 
or manufacturing something, the solemn 
answer was always: “Making something 
for Baby Sophie, of course.” 

“I am going to be the first one to teach 
her to read,” said All Heart. 

“And I to draw,” said Anne. “Just 
think, when she is as old as we are, we’ll 
be almost women, and mamma will trust 
her out with us wherever we’ll want to 
take her.” 

They decided that their doll house would 
be too large for her when she first began 
to enjoy toys, so with much ingenuity they 
collected four wooden boxes, all the same 
size, and then with a hammer too heavy 
for their small hands, and some tacks, 
tried to fasten them together. They 
struggled bravely, but had in the end to 
appeal to their father, who, in a short 
time, with a few strong blows, had all four 
boxes fastened securely in a big square. 
Then the girls passed some very happy 
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OUR LITTLE PITCHERS 


hours, papering and carpeting the tiny 
rooms. Willie took his little saw and care- 
fully cut out squares for windows, which 
soon had curtains hanging before them. 

“We need not hurry furnishing it,” said 
Anne, “because it will be so long before 
Sophie can play with anything.” 

The greatest joy was when the children 
were allowed to hold the baby; and this 
was always a reward for being very good. 

So the little spirit, which fluttered into 
their midst, to be there only a short time, 
did a great work in making four hearts 
softer and gentler, and brought sweet un- 
selfishness and greater consideration for 
other’s feelings. 

Little Morgan, starting one day from 
school, a great many blocks from home, 
and having no money but his carfare with 
him, saw a boy with violets for sale — five 
cents a bunch — which he bought, walked 
home, and put the flowers into Baby 
Sophie’s hand. 

But our Blessed Lord did not will that 
this pure little spirit should be long with 
us. She did not grow, and all the tender, 
loving care given could not keep her from 
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OUR LITTLE PITCHERS 


wasting away to a shadow. She had just 
begun to smile — oh, such a wan, lovely, 
heavenly little smile, that showed the 
spirit was ready for another world, not 
this — when one day she fell asleep, never 
to wake again on earth. 

The house was so quiet, and the cloud 
of sadness that hung over it was so differ- 
ent from anything the Little Pitchers had 
ever experienced before, it made them 
realize, for the first time, that this life 
was not a path of roses. 

“Are we always going to be sad like 
this all the rest of our lives ?” sobbed All 
Heart, looking down at the little waxen 
face and still form she knew she would 
never take into her arms again. 

Although the tears were rolling down 
her mother’s cheeks, she smiled sweetly. 

“Oh, no, dear, God is good; He softens 
all sorrow with time; and you will be 
happy again, and a better girl, now you 
have a sweet memory of a lovely sister, 
lent you for three months, and waiting to 
see you again, when God takes you to 
Himself.” 

And they all found mamma was right. 

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Their tears were dried, and they began 
soon to take the same old interest in sports 
and plays. But when an unkind word 
came to their lips, one thought of the 
little sister “gone before ,, would turn it 
to a loving one. 

All Heart wrote a poem which was given 
to her mother on her birthday, to which 
was attached a drawing by Anne of a baby 
in the arms of angels Jcove some clouds, 
while below was an empty crib. Would 
that we could give the drawing; but here 
is the poem : 

My Little Sister. 

I once had a little sister, 

But now she’s dead and gone. 

It was God’s will to take her, 

And for her I must not mourn. 

The angels have taken her soul away 
To that great kingdom above, 

Where she will rest on Jesus’ breast, 
And her heart be full of love. 

What dazzling jewel from Tiffany’s 
could bring the joy to a true mother’s 
heart as did this gift? 

48 


CHAPTER V 


The Nurse's Story 

C HORTLY after the sweet little sister 
^ took her flight into the next world 
All Heart had a cold, the doctor said might 
develop into whooping-cough ; so, for pre- 
caution's sake, as dear mamma did not 
relish the idea of four children “whooping" 
round her all at once, it was planned to 
have All Heart spend a week or more in a 
sweet country place, not far from the city, 
at the home of a clergyman friend. 

At first the little girl was delighted, 
and for two or three days she amused her- 
self with the Rector's dogs and cats, and 
children's books she found in the library 
of the pretty Rectory which stood next 
to the church. 

The young Rector and his wife had no 
children, and All Heart soon longed for 
her brothers and sister, and the big play- 
room. Homesickness began to create very 
uncomfortable feelings, such as she had 
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never felt before. She realized how very 
kind it was for the Rector's young wife to 
take her, half ill with the dreadful cough ; 
and how much was done for her comfort 
and happiness. So she did not let them 
know what she suffered, and tried hard to 
make herself contented with reading and 
composing. But the tears would come one 
day, while she was all alone, sitting on the 
back steps, which led into the kitchen. 

Now the Rector's wife had what few 
in this world are blessed with — a good 
old Scotch servant, who had taken her into 
her arms, an hour after she was born, and 
had from that moment devoted her whole 
life to her; in fact, lived for her alone. 
Although this good woman was “maid of 
all work" in the little Rectory, and was, 
as is likely to be the case under such cir- 
cumstances, the ruler there, she was 
called “Nurse," until our Heavenly Father 
took her from her loving charge. 

“And are ye thinking of hame, and are 
lonely, bairn?" she said, when she saw All 
Heart crying on the steps. 

“Yes, Nurse; I know it's foolish, but I 
wish I could go home." 

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“Now, lass, how would you like to hear 
a tale about a little girl no older than ye, 
who one dark night in the mountains of 
Scotland would ha’ been so glad to ha’ had 
a roof like this house to be under, even if 
it wasn't her ain hame?” 

“And did the little girl really live?" 
said All Heart, a bright smile already on 
her face. 

“Yes, bairn, that little one was me-sel'." 

All Heart threw her arms around the 
good woman. 

“Oh, Nurse, tell me the story, please do." 

“Not now, dear, I have too much work 
to do, but after tea, when the Rector and 
his wife are in church, come to me, and 
I'll tell ye what many a chiel has loved to 
hear." 

All Heart's tears were dried now, and 
in happy anticipation she spent the rest 
of the afternoon writing letters to the 
dear ones at home. 

To mamma she wrote: 

“The Rectory. 

“Dear Mamma : 

“It is nice here. Mrs. A is teech- 

ing me to kroshay. I want to make some 
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slippers for you. I reed books Mrs. A 

had when she was little. They are nice 
but I get tired reeding. Nurse is going to 
tell me a story this evening. My coif is 
better, they think it is not hooping coff, 
so I can come home soon. This is my last 
poem. I wrote it under the trees. Mrs. 

A told me how to spel all the words 

rite. 


The Willow. 

Oh, how pretty the willow looks 

As it hangs its branches in the nooks. 

It is the prettiest of all the trees, 

With its drooping bright green leaves. 

“Good by from your loving 

“All Heart.” 

In the scrupulously neat kitchen that 
evening, Nurse sat in her old armchair 
by the fire. In a pot on the stove was 
slowly simmering some butterscotch, which 
Nurse loved to make for children. All 
Heart sat at her feet on a stool, and waited 
patiently until she had put on her glasses, 
and started her knitting. She still knit 
stockings for her precious charge. All 
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Heart felt strangely peaceful. A story she 
knew would be thrilling awaited her. The 
soothing stillness around her, the slow, 
monotonous tick-tock, tick-tock of the big 
clock on the wall, all served to make her 
feel dreamy and happy. At last Nurse 
began her story. We will omit all Scotch 
dialect : 

“Once a little girl eight years old lived 
in a village in the mountains of Scotland. 

“She loved her home, although she and 
her brothers and sisters had to work hard. 
They never complained and were a de- 
voted family. 

“The little Antille was the special 
favorite. Her principal task was taking 
care of sheep out on the hills. Some- 
times for a whole day she would sit and 
watch many sheep and lambs. She never 
forgot the number, and knew every one 
of her father's flock. She felt so sad when 
she thought of those which had to be 
killed, and often her brothers would resort 
to subterfuge when taking some away, by 
telling her they were only going to be 
shorn of their wool. 

“To one little lamb in the fold Antille 
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gave an undying love; and her brothers 
and parents declared that, whatever hap- 
pened, her Snowdrop should never be 
taken from her. It followed her like a dog, 
and had special privileges not given to the 
others. 

“ ‘She knows how I love her,’ Antille 
would say, when Snowdrop looked at her, 
with her sad little eyes. ‘She knows I 
have saved her from the cruel butcher’s 
knife.’ 

“This pet was always as white as her 
name, and honored with a ribbon round 
her neck. 

“Antille was watching the sheep, one hot 
day, rather far from home. She had 
driven them to a spot where she knew 
there was a cool brook, and several large 
trees, under which she could keep com- 
fortable, eat her simple luncheon, and yet 
never lose sight of a single sheep in the 
fold. There were two large pens on the 
hill, covered with rude sheds, where, in 
case of an unexpected shower, the sheep 
could be driven in and have a shelter. 

“Antille leaned against the tree she was 
sitting under, and looked dreamily in the 
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OUR LITTLE PITCHERS 


direction of her home. She half expected 
her devoted friend Roger, who was called 
her little lover, such was his affection for 
her. He often sat with her while she 
cared for the sheep, whole days; and the 
hours always passed more pleasantly and 
quickly with him by her side. But she 
looked long that day in vain for Roger, 
whose father had put him to hard work, 
which he did well and uncomplainingly, 
for he was a good boy, but longed all the 
while to be under the tree he knew Antilie 
had sought. 

“At last the little girl grew drowsy, and 
with her head against the tree-trunk, fell 
fast asleep. How long she slept she never 
knew. She awoke with a start, having 
dreamed that the sheep were all running 
over a precipice, and she was trying to 
keep some back. She saw the sun had 
almost disappeared behind the hill, but 
the flock seemed safe as usual, peacefully 
grazing before her. She thought it safer, 
however, to count them, which she did, 
and to her dismay and horror, found one 
missing, and that one her Snowdrop. She 
was alarmed, but thinking she could not 
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have strayed very far away, and that it 
would be a simple matter to find her, did 
not allow herself much apprehension ; and 
after skilfully driving the sheep into the 
pens, and fastening the gates securely, 
started on her quest. 

“She wandered some time over the 
ground where she thought Snowdrop 
would be likely to seek grass, but could 
see no sign of her pet. Suddenly she 
thought, with more fear than she had yet 
had, of a ravine not very far away, on 
both sides of which was a steep precipice. 
She had to retrace her steps some dis- 
tance, and, as she flew over the ground, 
was angry with herself for not thinking 
of the ravine before. 

“Every minute seemed an hour, but at 
last she reached it, and walked slowly on 
the edge of the steep decline peering into 
the depths below. The ravine was very 
long, and the great walls on each side per- 
ilously steep, covered with boulders, and 
scrubby trees and bushes. She wondered, 
if she ran the risk of going down, which 
she knew would be a long, hard task, 
with danger, too, there would be any pos- 
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sibility of her finding her little lamb. Not 
being, in her anxiety, able to keep still, she 
continued walking while she pondered. 
She was so at sea. It seemed so hope- 
less. She prayed aloud that she might 
have light to know what was best to do. 
She did not have to consider long, for sud- 
denly through the stillness she heard a 
faint “ba-a, b-a-a,” and leaning over the 
precipice, she spied, far down at the very 
bottom of the ravine, a pure white spot 
she knew was her Snowdrop. 

“At once, with no calculations as to the 
consequences, she began slowly making her 
way down the almost perpendicular wall, 
slipping now and then, in the greatest dan- 
ger of falling, and helping herself by tak- 
ing hold of trees and bushes, sometimes 
swinging herself from one to another. By 
the mercy of God she reached the bottom 
unharmed, and there found her little lamb 
with a foreleg broken. Snowdrop gazed 
at her mistress with eyes that all but 
spoke of joy and gratitude. Antille, with 
mingled feelings of pain and happiness, 
sat down by her pet and burst into an 
agony of tears. But at last the womanly 
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instinct in her asserted itself, and she 
knew she must be practical. At first she 
found some small smooth sticks, and, tak- 
ing one of her garments, tore it into 
strips, and with wonderful skill, for her 
brothers had taught her, placed the lamb's 
broken leg in the splints, and bound it 
up carefully. By the time the bandaging 
was finished, Antilie noticed it was getting 
dark, and she knew it would be very dark 
for some hours, before the moon rose, so 
hurriedly taking Snowdrop in her arms, 
tried to ascend the bank, a feat she soon 
found, with both arms occupied with the 
injured pet, was impossible. Only with 
great difficulty could she walk on level 
ground. Undaunted, and full of courage, 
she glanced in every direction, to see if by 
any chance she might reach the top of 
the precipice. Noticing that the land rose 
gradually with a stream which ran 
through the center of the gorge, she de- 
cided to walk on the upward grade, hoping 
to find, farther on, a spot where the land 
would be high enough to make it possible 
for her to strike off to the left, and reach 
the ground above. Just as she started, 
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clasping her treasure closely and tenderly 
in her arms, a vivid flash of lightning, fol- 
lowed by a loud clap of thunder, warned 
her the walk must be postponed, and that 
she must seek what shelter she could find, 
from the storm. She found nothing but 
a boulder, which was the poorest kind of 
roof, under which she crept, laying the 
lamb down on the ground, which was for- 
tunately covered with grass. Then the 
storm raged in all its fury. It seemed to 
shake the whole earth. The rain fell in tor- 
rents and swept under the poor shelter. 
Antille knelt on her knees by Snowdrop, 
and, placing clasped arms on the ground 
the other side of the animal, and her head 
on her arms, shielded entirely the little 
body with her slim one; and so she re- 
mained until the storm passed and the 
thunder grew faint in the distance. She 
rose, wet to the skin, and cramped, but 
even while a few drops were falling she 
lifted the lamb carefully, and started up 
the stream. She knew what little light was 
left would soon be gone, and that her wet 
clothing would be less likely to chill her if 
she kept moving. This last was true; the 
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exertion of walking with the animal kept 
her warm, and she managed to cover the 
ground quickly, keeping near the stream. 
She found, however, after a walk of over 
half a mile, she was very, very tired. But 
what made her heart sink with fear and 
dread was the fact, that, even though she 
had walked up an incline, the banks on 
either side seemed to grow higher as she 
continued. The darkness of the night came 
on very rapidly now, and she sat on a 
rock, holding the lamb in her lap, to rest, 
in hopes that, when the moon rose, she 
might try once more to climb the bank. 
But when the welcome light came, she 
found she had no strength left for more 
struggle, and the weary hours passed 
somehow, and the dawn brought with it 
courage and hope. The first thing she 
saw, by broad daylight, was, that to con- 
tinue her course of the night would be 
folly, and that she must retrace her steps, 
which she did very slowly and painfully, 
for her feet were sore and bruised, and 
she felt ill. At last she reached the spot 
where Snowdrop was found. She knew it 
by some of the bushes she had nearly up- 
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“ The poorest kind of roof ’ 







OUR LITTLE PITCHERS 


rooted when she made her perilous de- 
scent. She then sat down and made up 
her mind to wait and trust that kind 
Providence would send some aid. She felt 
the flock was safe, and knew that, when 
she did not appear at six, some one would 
be sent for her, and the sheep, all found 
safe in the pens, would be driven home, 
and probably a search for her begun. 

“She was right, and the trust in Provi- 
dence rewarded; for soon was heard a 
faint sound of calling. 'Hi — ho — An — 
tiller She shouted in reply, and the con- 
tinued calls sounded nearer and nearer, 
until she saw, high up on the edge of the 
precipice, four men looking down on her. 
They had Tanterns, for they had searched 
all night, and it was not long before they 
reached her side. Two were her brothers, 
with two sturdy friends. They did not 
ask many questions, for they saw at a 
glance what had happened. One took the 
little lamb, and placed it carefully on his 
shoulder. And one brother lifted his sis- 
ter in his arms, and they all walked some 
distance to a spot unknown to Antille, 
where it was not so difficult to mount the 
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bank. Soon they reached home, where an 
anxious family awaited them. 

“Roger met them on the way, with tear- 
stained face, and Antilie could only smile 
down at him, as he walked beside them. 

“They put the child to bed, where soon 
she was tossing in a high fever. She did 
not know her own dear ones about her for 
many days. And when the fever was at 
its worst, she imagined that fires were 
burning near, and begged piteously those 
around her to put out the flames and save 
her Snowdrop. One day she awoke from 
a sweet sleep, very, very weak, but in no 
suffering, and saw her dear mother sitting 
beside her. The sun was shining in the 
room, and a cool breeze blowing through 
the window. All was so still and peace- 
ful. 

“When the mother saw her child was 
awake, she smilingly rose and opened the 
door. Then Antille heard a familiar ‘ba-a 
hardy’ and pattering of little hoofs, and 
saw her pet, Snowdrop, well as ever, by 
her bed, her nose nestled in the coverlet.” 

Nurse ceased speaking. 

“Oh, Nurse, is that all?” 

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“Yes, lass, that ends my tale.” 

“But Snowdrop, what became of her?” 

“Died, my chiel, just before I came to 
America; and I watered the flowers on 
her little grave with my tears.” 

“And Roger, dear Roger,” said All 
Heart eagerly, “did he not want you, when 
he grew up, for his very own?” 

“No, lassie, no. Roger was a bright 
boy, and was sent to the big towns to 
study, and became a physician, a great 
one, they say. He married a pretty city 
lass, much better suited to him than little 
Antille of the mountains.” 

The butterscotch simmered on, the click 
of Nurse's needles and the tick-tock of 
the clock sounded loud in the stillness 
around them. But All Heart heard noth- 
ing. She could only see a deep ravine, 
and a little girl bending over a lamb, 
shielding it from a torrent of rain; and 
she wondered if she could ever be so 
brave and courageous — she feared not. 

Her reveries were broken with : “Come, 
lass, it is time ye were in bed; I'll go up 
stairs wid ye.” 


65 


CHAPTER VI 


Raster 

T HE glorious Feast of Easter was 
always made a very happy time at 
the Rectory. Although church was never 
neglected during Lent, and the Little 
Pitchers were made to realize what a very 
holy time it was, the good parents and 
auntie were weeks preparing for Easter 
Day. Eggs were blown, and beautifully 
decorated; and the children often won- 
dered how the prettiest of tiny gifts could 
be so ingeniously stowed away in egg 
shells. Nests were made to hold the eggs. 
Wonderful imitations of real birds’ nests, 
to hide away in nooks and corners. Pres- 
ents for every member of the family were 
procured ; and the children, with kind 
auntie to teach them, practiced many and 
many an hour, pretty carols to sing in the 
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early morning of Easter just outside of 
papa's door. I wonder how many fathers 
in these days are wakened in the morning 
of that Great Feast, by the voices of their 
own little ones, telling them in sweet 
carols of the Blessed Resurrection of our 
Lord? 

This special Lent I write about, there 
was something preparing that was a great 
secret from papa. Whispering, and placing 
fingers on lips, seemed to be the order of 
the day, the mysterious visits of a musi- 
cal friend, and all, headed by auntie, tip- 
toeing quietly to the top of the house, and 
closing doors to shut away sounds. Two 
little cousins, Mary and Frank, spent 
much of Lent with the Little Pitchers, and 
always Easter as well as Christmas holi- 
days. Mary, named for grandma — and 
her special pet — shared her room, and the 
parents of the cousins (Uncle Charlie and 
Aunt Maggie) loved to have their chil- 
dren enjoy the pleasures of the Rectory, 
coming themselves while they were there, 
in the daytime, and going home at night. 

Easter Day was late this year, and 
dawned bright and warm. The children 
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were up very early, and hardly dared 
speak aloud lest they waken their dear 
papa, for their disappointment would have 
been great had his awakening not been 
from the carol singing. 

At the appointed time they all gathered 
round his door, and, at a sign from auntie, 
their voices burst forth in a beautiful 
Easter carol. Anne had been asked not 
to sing very loud, as she never could sing 
except on one note. 

“You know,” explained All Heart, “your 
part is alto, and that is always sung very 
low.” 

Then followed two more carols; then 
the surprise — the last on the program — 
when they were sure dear papa’s blue 
eyes were wide open, and he could hear 
distinctly every word. With a new and 
simple but very pretty tune he had never 
heard before, he listened to — 

’Tis Easter Day! ’Tis Easter Day! 

And Easter bells are ringing; 

The children gather round the door, 

And for papa are singing. 


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Chorus : For Christ hath risen with joy 
and triumph. 

Awake, awake, dear papa, 

For it is Easter Day. 

The birds are singing sweetly, 

The flowers are blooming gay. 

Chorus : For Christ hath risen, etc. 

We will be good and happy, 

On this dear Easter Day; 

We’ll go to church and praise Christ, 
And all His words obey. 

Chorus : For Christ hath risen, etc. 

Then came a dead silence, and the chil- 
dren listened eagerly to catch what was 
being said behind the door. They could 
only hear fragments of the following con- 
versation : 

“And where did they get that last 
quaint little carol?” 

Mamma was in the secret and knew 
what to say. 

“Can you not guess?” 

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Papa guessed it might be mamma's. 

“No, guess again." 

And the Rector guessed again and 
again, but in vain, the children all burst- 
ing with suppressed laughter. At last he 
had to give it up, and mamma said : 

“It was written by your little All Heart, 
and Miss S put it to music." 

Papa could not speak for some time, but, 
as soon as he could trust himself, he 
opened the door, with a sweet smile on 
his face, and, as was always his custom 
on Easter morning, his first words to his 
children were: 

“The Lord is risen!" 

And then the answer came in chorus : 

“And hath appeared unto Simon." 

“And now, my little All Heart, papa is 
so happy and pleased. We'll have the new 
carol put in print." 

Tears of joy came into All Heart's eyes. 
Then the door closed, but the Little Pitch- 
ers and the cousins waited, for they knew 
what was coming. In a minute or two the 
Rector's hand and arm appeared, and such 
a shower of pennies was thrown into the 
air ! They flew in every direction, skipped 
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and rolled down the stairs in the hall be- 
low, and into corners. But every one 
was found, and those who had more than 
the others were very generous, and it all 
ended in each one having the same number 
of pennies. Then came the nest hunting, 
which occupied fully a half hour. They 
hunted from the fourth floor down, under 
beds, in dark corners, behind curtains, and 
in every nook conceivable. After the early 
Celebration at the Church came the big 
breakfast. The Little Pitchers, their par- 
ents, Uncle Charlie and Aunt Maggie, 
auntie and grandma, all sat down to- 
gether. The table was a mass of beautiful 
colors, arranged with much taste. One 
pretty dish of white, yellow, red and 
green, perhaps some mammas of our little 
readers would like to know of. A large 
pie dish held a chicken pate, and on the 
top the four colors in quarters : One quar- 
ter the white of hard boiled eggs chopped 
fine; another the yolk of the eggs; the 
third parsley ; and the fourth beets. Every- 
thing was either a bright color, or pret- 
tily decorated, from the golden yellow sal- 
lyluns, to the big beefsteaks. It was two 
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OUR LITTLE PITCHERS 


very happy families that sat around the 
festive board and received their Easter 
gifts, after which they made ready to go 
to the later blessed service of The 
Eucharist. 

The holiday week that followed was full 
of pleasure for the Little Pitchers and the 
cousins. The wonders of old Wood’s Mu- 
seum, the theatre, friends invited to spend 
the day with them, and then what a noise 
in the playroom ! Such tumbling and 
racing, and shaking the whole house ! 
Quiet only when called down stairs, and 
seated round a table “groaning” with 
good things, all of which called forth 
from the dear mother one night: 

“My dear Susan, if you will take my 
Little Pitchers to-morrow morning to Bar- 
num’s Museum, and to the matinee, I’ll 
bless you, as the dearest sister in the 
world, all the rest of my life !” 

And to Barnum’s they went, and saw 
the most wonderful things, among which 
a big sea monster, the huge fat woman 
seated beside a man so thin he looked like 
a skeleton. All Heart remembers how she 
clung to auntie’s skirt, afraid, she could 
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not tell of what, in the presence of people 
that did not look human; and how when 
the big, unnatural looking woman looked 
at her, and smiled so sweetly, nodding her 
head the while, her fear left her at once. 

In the afternoon, after a fine luncheon 
in a quiet restaurant, the children marched, 
two by two, to the theatre in old Wood’s 
Museum ; and auntie was much amused at 
hearing some one say: “A school, I sup- 
pose.” When they took their seats, they 
naturally could hardly wait with patience 
until the curtain rose. What they saw 
was “The Field of the Cloth of Gold,” 
which really was a comic representation 
of the time when Henry the Eighth and 
Francis, King of France, met together and 
held a great ten days’ tournament, when 
the feasting and entertaining were so 
magnificent it somewhat resembled the 
luxurious entertainments among the very 
wealthy of to-day. To quote Charles Dick- 
ens: “There were sham castles, tempo- 
rary chapels, fountains running wine, 
great cellars full of wine free as water to 
all comers, silk tents, gold lace and foil, 
gilt lions, and such things without end.” 

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All this was hard to represent on the 
stage, but it was a wonderful sight to the 
children, who looked in big-eyed wonder 
at the glittering armor, helmets, the many- 
colored costumes, the graceful dancers, 
who seemed to fly through the air. They 
did not see the comic side, only felt them- 
selves in Fairyland, and did not even smile 
when the horses came leaping on the 
stage, all on two legs instead of four; 
legs that looked much more like men’s 
than horses’. The forelegs of each horse 
stood out in front and never touched the 
ground, while the legs of the men on the 
backs of the horses hung limp at the sides 
and looked very unnatural, flopping at 
every step the horses made. 

The kings fought with their knights, 
who of course had to let their majesties 
win, as it would have been quite impolite 
to have done otherwise. The greatest ex- 
citement was when the two kings wrestled, 
and big, coarse Henry the Eighth was 
thrown to the ground. History tells us 
it really happened and that Henry was 
very angry, but the quarrel was made up, 
and they became great friends again — for 
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OUR LITTLE PITCHERS 


a while — and Henry gave Francis a jew- 
elled collar, and Francis presented Henry 
with a superb bracelet. 

It took the children some time to come 
back to real life again, after the curtain 
went down, and auntie marshaled them 
into the Museum, where the wooden man 
on the trapeze swung back and forth, do- 
ing wonderful feats, for a dummy; and 
many curiosities were on exhibition. They 
walked home so absorbed in what they had 
seen, they could think and talk of nothing 
for hours but fairylike flying women, leap- 
ing horses, glittering garments and a blaze 
of lights. 

Our friends had a little guest with them 

that afternoon, sweet little Emma B , 

whose home was on the Hudson, the beau- 
tiful river we shall hear about in another 
chapter; and it was her first visit to a 
theatre. She is now a charming married 
woman, and the sister of a very prominent 
man. I wonder, if she ever reads these 
pages, she will have the same tugging at 
her heart strings that the writer has, and 
feel the tears coming, in the memory of 
that afternoon, which is so vivid it might 
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have been yesterday, although so much, 
oh, so much, has happened since? 

All Heart, as she walked dreamily along, 
began to think, as she did so often, how 
blessed she and her sister and brothers 
were. She looked with pity upon some 
poor little barefoot children, dirty and un- 
cared for, and felt her little heart fill with 
gratitude. She was inspired, on arriving 
home, to compose the following, which she 
recited, standing by the dear mother’s 
knee, who wrote it down without altering 
a word : 


Blessings 

Little children, do we think 
The blessings we have had? 

There are some boys with naked feet, 
Who tread along the frosty street, 
And are so wildly clad. 

We have comforts, we have home, 

We have father and mother, 

We have aunts and uncles, too : 

Don’t you think that’s better 
Than a little barefoot boy, 

Who has nothing to enjoy? 

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Six very tired but happy little ones went 
early to bed that night and in less than a 
minute, I think, were sound asleep. 


77 


CHAPTER VII 


The Sermon 

HE last day of Easter Week's vaca- 



-*• tion had come, and with it the not 
welcome thoughts of school again, lessons 
to study, and, worst of all, the departure 
for home of Mary and Frank. It was a 
dreary day. The rain fell steadily, and 
the sky gave no promise of clearing. 

All Heart and Mary stood looking out 
of the window in grandma's room, their 
arms around each other. 

“Isn't it mean to rain like this, when 
we'd planned to go to the Park?" said All 
Heart, gloomily. 

“Children," cried grandma, behind them, 
“don't breathe on my windows; they've 
just been washed." 

“Come, Mary," All Heart said, loftily, 
“we’re not wanted here; let's get the oth- 
ers and play something. It must be a 
quiet play, and down in the breakfast 


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OUR LITTLE PITCHERS 


room, for papa is writing his sermon, and 
has asked us not to be noisy.” 

The four Little Pitchers with the two 
cousins were quickly gathered together, 
and All Heart suggested the play of 
Church. Mary had her doubts as to 
whether their plan would be allowed, if 
it were made known to the parents up- 
stairs. 

“I don’t think it’s reverent. Uncle Fer- 
dinand might not like it.” 

The consciences of the others, not so 
tender, and All Heart being determined, 
Mary’s mind was eased with clever argu- 
ments. 

“You know if we don’t mean to be ir- 
reverent, we don’t do wrong. I heard 
mamma say that once.” 

“I don’t think God will have any ‘inter- 
jections’,” said Morgan seriously; “it is 
like saying our prayers, you know.” 

“That’s so,” added All Heart, “but sup- 
pose we only have a sermon — and nothing 
more?” “Good, good,” they all cried, “a 
sermon will be all right !” 

Their consciences relieved, All Heart 
continued : 


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“Now you fix up the church while I run 
upstairs and get a surplice, and pencil and 
paper for my sermon, for I’m going to be 
clergyman.” 

“Bring all the dolls, and everything we 
need,” called Anne, as All Heart tiptoed 
upstairs; “and don’t tell anybody about 
our play.” 

It took two trips for the would-be cler- 
gyman to bring dolls of all sizes, several 
shawls, and other things needed. Then, re- 
tiring to a corner, she began to compose 
and write her sermon. 

“Don’t make such a clatter; I can’t 
think.” 

“You’re a cool one,” said William, “to 
sit there and complain, when we have all 
the work to do.” 

“I’m sure I’m working,” said All Heart, 
sucking the blunt point of her pencil. “If 
you had to write a long sermon, with a 
pencil that wasn’t sharp, you’d think it 
was work.” 

She scribbled on, while the others at- 
tended to the more practical preparations. 

Five rows of chairs and stools formed 
the body of the church; and a solemn ar- 
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OUR LITTLE PITCHERS 


ray of dolls — all were there, from the 
bride doll to Dinah — occupied most of the 
seats. 

Little Frank was told, much to his de- 
light, that he was to be sexton, and was 
dressed in a black overcoat of William's, 
which trailed on the floor behind him, and 
was pinned up in front. This last precau- 
tion taken only after he had fallen twice 
and been given two lumps of sugar to stop 
his crying. The pulpit was a chair, with 
back turned toward the congregation, and 
well draped to floor with an old shawl. A 
foot stool served as step. 

“Now,” said All Heart, looking with sat- 
isfaction at the preparations, “all you 
four go out in the hall, and don't come in 
together; come one at a time, and that 
will seem more like real church. No, 
Frank, you are sexton; stay at the back 
and show the people seats, while I go in 
the pantry — that's our sacristy — and put 
on my surplice." 

A small white skirt was ready to be 
pinned, by the good-natured cook, round 
All Heart's neck, and slowly, to the tune 
of a hymn, hummed by Mary, she walked 
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in, and stood with a serious countenance, 
facing five other earnest, solemn little 
faces, and thirteen dolls. 

“Look out,” cried a voice from below, as 
All Heart mounted the pulpit, “if you lean 
too far over the rail, you and your pulpit 
will pitch over into the front pew.” 

All Heart stretched out her hand : 

“Silence! No talking in the church. 
One more word and the sexton will put 
you out.” 

As the sexton was five years old and the 
culprit eleven, the former looked as if he 
would a little rather not turn policeman. 

All Heart than gave out notices as fol- 
lows: 

“There will be a ‘festry’ meeting to-mor- 
row evening at eight o'clock. The Sunday- 
school teachers will meet in the Guild 
Room Wednesday afternoon to ‘conserve’ 
on the subject of ‘bibligraphical’ stories to 
teach their classes. My text this morn- 
ing, brothers and sisters — ” 

“It isn’t morning, it’s afternoon,” piped 
a voice. 

“Please don’t interrupt; no one ever 
interrupts papa when he preaches, and 
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Fm right, for we are playing it's morning. 

“My text is, ‘Little children, love one 
another.' Now, little children, you must 
love one another. It is wrong not to love 
one another. It is sinful not to love one 
another. Never hate — never hate — always 
love — always love." 

This was delivered in a low-pitched 
voice, with long pauses after each sen- 
tence. 

The falling of a doll — held in Anne's lap 
— on the floor disclosed the fact of the 
drowsiness of one member of the congre- 
gation. 

“Morgan, punch Anne; she's asleep." 

With a start Anne awoke. 

“But your sermon is so stupid I can't 
keep awake; do stop." 

All Heart continued, undisturbed by the 
uncomplimentary remark. 

“Did your minds ever ‘evolute' the fact, 
that you would be happier if you loved? 
We should love everybody and everything, 
— the drunkard, the ash-picker, — even the 
mean, low animals that crawl under our 
feet " 

“Rats — mice?" said Morgan. 

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“Yes — mice and — and rats — in a trap, 
though. Thereon, I say, love one another.'' 

She leaned now, perilously far over the 
pulpit rail, and stretched her hand out to- 
ward the congregation. 

“The hills rising into the heaven, from 
out their flowery bed, call ‘Love.' The 
waves, the beautiful waves, the big waves, 
the little waves, all simmering over the top 
of the great black ocean, call to us, ‘Love!* 
I besort, I bewail, I beg — I — I — I — say: 
Love one another!" 

To the relief of her listeners All Heart 
rolled up her sermon, and carefully de- 
scended from the pulpit, then announced 
the singing of the hymn, “There is a green 
hill far away," in which all joined, even 
the sexton, although he sadly mutilated 
the words. All Heart, being musical, she 
only suffered somewhat from the different 
keys in which the music was rendered. 

As the “Amen" was more roared than 
sung, the door opened and Auntie Susan's 
voice was almost drowned in the din. 

“Children, what are you doing?" 

All Heart raised a warning finger. “Sh 
— sh — auntie, we are playing ‘Church.' " 

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“ The hills rising into the heaven 




OUR LITTLE PITCHERS 


Then, humming a tune in imitation of 
an organ's music, the small clergyman 
slowly walked into the pantry, while auntie 
tried to hide her smiles and kindly waited 
until the surplice was removed, and the 
play over. 

“Now, children, I have a letter." 

Church was forgotten and a shout of 
joy went up, for whenever auntie came 
among the Little Pitchers with a letter, 
and a bright smile on her face, it always 
meant something to make them happy. 

“You are all invited to spend next Sat- 
urday in the country — you, Mary, includ- 
ed, and auntie goes with you. We are to 
take an early train. Let us hope for clear 
skies and a warm day." 

“Hurrah!" shouted the children, and 
after this good news the thought of Mon- 
day's lessons did not seem as gloomy as 
it did before. 


87 


CHAPTER VIII 


A Day in the Country 
HE next Saturday dawned with great 



-*■ promise. The sky was clear and 
blue, and the air warm and balmy. Mary 
arrived early at the Rectory, and the ex- 
cited children were with difficulty pre- 
pared for the journey. Auntie with her 
charges breathed a sigh of relief when all 
were seated in the train, and it moved 
slowly out of the station, and up the east 
shore of the lovely Hudson. 

All Heart looked with dreamy eyes at 
the constantly changing panorama. The 
woods ; the hills ; the wonderful Palisades ; 
the little boats scudding along on the 
water, many of them with pretty white 
sails; and she wondered how only wind 
could push them along so fast. Her poetic 
nature was uppermost now, and she slyly 
took the ever ready pencil and paper from 
her pocket and wrote the following : 


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The Hudson 

The Hudson, how lovely, oh, children, do 
look, 

From hilltop to meadow, and willow and 
brook. 

We ought to be happy, on this nice Spring 
day, 

And thank our dear auntie, who gives us 
this play. 

Willie, at another window, was hun- 
grily watching the rowboats. 

“I wish I were in one,” he thought. “I'll 
hunt one up just as soon as I can;” and 
he began to plan, in his mind, all sorts of 
ways and means, by which he could get 
down to the shore alone, when greetings 
were over and plays had been started un- 
der the trees. He knew what an anxious 
caretaker auntie was, and how close she 
kept all the children to her, when she had 
them under her charge. 

“She never lets us have any fun,” 
thought Willie, gloomily, with a scowl on 
his brow; “ties us up, and follows us 
round. But I'll get the better of her to- 
day, you'll see!” 


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Ah, Willie, how little you knew what 
suffering your deceitful plans had in store 
for you. 

Auntie pointed out Anthony’s Nose, and 
told the children that very soon the cars 
would enter a tunnel on one side of the 
Nose and in a few moments come out at 
the other side. They all felt somewhat 
awed, and Morgan, timid by nature, cud- 
dled close to his auntie’s side. Sure enough, 
it grew suddenly dark, so dark you could 
not see your hand before your face; and 
then, in less time than it takes to tell it, the 
sunlight came, and auntie showed them 
the other side of the hill, which did look 
very much like a man’s nose. 

It was not long before the little party 
were in the big hall of their kind hostess’ 
house, and oh, what a merry mingling of 
voices, each one suggesting some game, 
and eager to run out on the beautiful 
grounds. There was, of course, a big 
swing, for there was a sweet, petted child 
in the home; a see-saw; seats built up in 
the trees, and actually reached by means 
of steps; a pole securely imbedded in the 
ground with a rope fastened at the top, on 
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a wheel that spun round and round, when 
one took hold of the handle at the other 
end of the rope, and had the courage to 
run and then jump into the air and be 
carried off his feet. Anne, who feared 
nothing, and always took the lead when 
risks were run, was the first Little Pitcher 
to try 'The Fly,” as it was called. When 
the others saw her evident enjoyment in 
flying through the air, they soon followed 
her example. 

Willie stood by himself in the back- 
ground. As auntie was sitting under a 
tree he knew he could not run down the 
hill and toward the water without being 
discovered. The hunting up of a rowboat 
and trying his powers as oarsman had now 
become a burning desire, making him in- 
capable of enjoying anything else. He 
had learned to row the summer before, on 
a smooth pond, and felt quite equal to 
using oars under all circumstances. At 
last an opportunity offered, although it 
did not give him exactly what he wanted. 
After all he was willing to make a com- 
promise if he got his way in the end. 

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Anne, catching a glimpse of water through 
the trees, exclaimed: 

“Oh, the river !” Can’t we run down the 
hill and see it?” , 

“I’ll take you,” said Willie, eagerly. 

“I, too; I, too,” cried Morgan. 

Auntie, after listening to much plead- 
ing and begging, assented with many di- 
rections and admonitions. They were to 
keep on the grounds that belonged to the 
house, which reached to the car track, and 
would give them a near enough view of 
the river. 

“Now, Willie,” said auntie, “take the 
greatest care of your little brother and 
sister, and come back in half an hour; 
don’t go near the water.” 

All Heart and Mary had found a ham- 
mock, and could not be persuaded to leave ; 
and Willie, not wanting any more hin- 
drance to the carrying out of his plans, 
did not encourage their going and hurried 
Anne and Morgan away, down the hill and 
out of sight. He particularly did not want 
All Heart, for he knew her scrupulous 
conscience too well, where obedience to 
commands was concerned; and was also 
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well versed in Anne's dare-devil, reckless 
ways, behind which lay a rather tough lit- 
tle conscience. 

“ She’ll go through a stone wall, five feet 
thick, if she wants to,” her father had 
once said. 

The three children reached the foot of 
the hill, and the sight of the railroad, not 
very far away, made them stop to consider. 

“If we are sure there is no train com- 
ing, we can get on the other side without 
any danger,” said Willie, now entirely 
forgetful of auntie’s orders. “It won’t 
take three minutes to get to the water.” 

A vision of possible wading made Mor- 
gan jump up and down and clap his hands. 
They soon found themselves on the other 
side of the track, and lo — there was noth- 
ing more to be wanted. Before Willie’s 
delighted gaze was a small dock, to which 
was moored a tiny rowboat, which had evi- 
dently just been used, for there were two 
oars inside. Willie made quick calcula- 
tions. He could jump into the boat, have 
the coveted row, and get back before the 
owner returned. He had heard someone 
say once that boats were a sort of public 
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property. Once more with auntie, even if 
they did tell her of the stolen pleasure, she, 
seeing them back safe and sound, would 
forgive them and all would be well. But 
what, in the meantime was he to do with 
Anne and Morgan? He could not send 
them back now, to report his doings. 
Anne, during his cogitations, had discov- 
ered a small island, not a great many feet 
from where they stood, of glistening 
sand and large flat stones. 

“Oh, look at the island,” she cried, “I 
wish we were there.” 

Willie at once conceived a plan. 

“You and Morgan get in the boat, and 
I’ll row you over. You stay there while 
I row a bit out in the river, just a little 
way, and then I'll go back, take you 
aboard, and we will come here, tie the 
boat up and go up to the house. Auntie 
said we could be gone a half an hour, and 
it won’t take more than that.” 

How simple and easy it looked. The 
craft was small and light, as were also the 
oars. Anne, to whom the proposition was 
most alluring, and having entire confi- 
dence in her big brother’s powers, scram- 
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bled into the boat, dragging Morgan after 
her. Willie untied the rope from the 
moorings, and they started toward the 
island. It did not take long to reach it, 
and Willie held the boat steady with the 
oars, while Anne and Morgan leaped out. 
He was very proud of his achievement, 
and longed for greater evidence of his 
powers. Having relieved the boat, and his 
mind, of the two restless children he 
plainly saw he could not control, he 
pushed the craft out into the water, and 
rowed toward the center of the river. His 
sister and brother watched him awhile, 
and then began to survey the island. It 
was not quite as attractive to Anne, now 
that she was really on it. The sand was 
damp, and there were little holes filled 
with water all over it. But the stones 
were dry, and she and Morgan amused 
themselves some time, piling one on top 
of another, making rocky hills on which 
they climbed and sat. Then they took off 
their shoes and stockings and ventured out 
into the water a little way; but in that 
they found no fun, as the water was very 
cold, and chilled them ; so they dried their 
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feet with handkerchiefs, and hurried into 
their shoes and stockings again. 

“I wish Willie would come back,” said 
Anne ; “he's awfully long, and he said he'd 
be here soon.” 

They both strained their eyes in the 
direction where they had last seen their 
brother, but they saw nothing that looked 
like one boy in a boat. Suddenly Anne 
gave a cry of wonder and fear. 

“Why, Morgan, the island is so much 
smaller.” 

Sure enough, it had dwindled to half the 
size it was when they first landed. 

“I wonder if we are sinking into the 
water,” Anne added. “I heard once of an 
island that sank down in the ocean, and 
no one ever saw it again.” 

Morgan gave a howl of terror. “P’raps 
we're too heavy for it ! Hadn’t you better 
lift me up?” Already where they were 
standing, little waves were lapping their 
feet. 

“Oh,” cried Anne, looking down at her 
wet shoes, “where is Willie? Why did we 
ever come? I wish we were those pig- 
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eons,” looking at a flock of gulls above 
their heads. 

She looked at the mainland; it did not 
seem so far away, but there was that 
dreadful water between, and to wade 
ashore she saw was impossible. Another 
wave broke over her toes, and she and 
Morgan jumped on a stone for protection. 
The island did look very tiny now, and 
both, thoroughly terrified, screamed lus- 
tily, and attracted the attention of a man 
who, not far away, was leisurely rowing 
himself toward shore. 

“Mr. Gentleman, Mr. Gentleman,” 
wailed Anne, “the island is sinking — the 
island’s sinking!” 

A few vigorous strokes and the man 
brought his boat up to the children, and 
quickly lifted them in. 

“Great Scott!” he said, “how came 
you there? You would have been in a 
pretty mess if I hadn’t come just in time. 
In a half an hour the water would have 
been up to your knees. How long have 
you been there?” 

“Oh, hours and hours,” sobbed Anne. 

The man laughed. “That bank of mud 
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is only exposed an hour at most at low 
tide. How did you ever get there?” 

“Our brother rowed us,” they both 
spoke in chorus, and he said he’d come 
right back, but he didn’t come.” 

“Pretty doings,” said the man. “Who 
could have been so careless?” 

By this time they had reached the shore, 
and in their joy Anne and Morgan started 
to cross the track, without even a “thank 
you” to their rescuer, when he called : 

“Here, children, do you know your way 
home ?” 

Anne pointed to a house clearly visible 
on the hill, and assured him they knew the 
way. The man watched them a few mo- 
ments, and then, convinced that he was no 
longer needed, turned to attend to his boat 
with a muttered “Pretty business, to be 
sure.” 

He suddenly heard his own boy’s voice 
calling behind: 

“Dad, dad, what do you think ; my boat’s 
gone. I left it here and ran up to a store, 
and when I came back it was gone.” 

“You tied it well, son?” 

“Yes, dad.” 


98 



“ Mr. Gentleman, the island is sinking! ” 


* 

* 

o 




» 


^ * » 
* 


) 







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“It couldn't have run off without oars; 
what did you do with them?" 

The boy hesitated and his face grew red. 

“I — I — I left them in the boat. I 
thought it was safe enough." 

“You young imp! It serves you right. 
If you are so careless, you deserve to lose 
your boat." 

The man suddenly looked thoughtful, 
and began to wonder if the disappearance 
of his boy's boat had not something to do 
with the plight of those two children who 
had just left him. 

And now we will return to Willie. When 
he had left his little brother and sister, 
he proudly rowed away, feathering his 
oars, trying not to dip them too far in the 
water, as he had been told not to do; in 
fact, thoroughly enjoying himself. He 
paid little attention to the direction in 
which he was going, only glancing now 
and then toward the island on which he 
could distinctly see Morgan and Anne. He 
noticed that he passed the land rapidly, 
and thought it due to his fine rowing. He 
seemed at last to be directly in the center 
of the river, and was suddenly aware of 
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the fact that the island and dock had dis- 
appeared. He sat still a moment and 
thought. 

“I have been going up the river, and 
the island was near the shore; I fear I 
am farther up than I thought I was.” 
Then, still without fear, he turned the 
boat really quite skilfully round, and be- 
gan rowing back. But, to his dismay, he 
soon realized that not only did he make 
no headway, but struggle hard as he could 
the boat was being carried rapidly up the 
river. He then tried to row in shore, but 
again failed, for the current in which he 
was caught was too strong for his weak 
arms to fight against. Now tired and 
thoroughly alarmed, he felt the tears well- 
ing up in his eyes, but choked them back, 
and began to wonder what was best to do. 
A sail-boat with three people in it came 
in sight, and Willie shouted to them, and 
waved his handkerchief. But the wind 
carried his voice in another direction, and 
the sailing party, thinking he only wanted 
to be friendly, waved back, and disap- 
peared around a bend in the river. Willie 
tried rowing once more, but found it im- 
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possible to keep the boat from going in 
the wrong direction. He was just about 
ready to give up, and cry in despair, when 
he saw a man in a big rowboat, not far 
from him. 

“Mister, mister, help !" he shouted with 
all his might; and this time his voice was 
carried in the right direction, and the man 
began rapidly rowing toward him. 

“What's the matter, boy?" he called. 

Willie gasped, pointing down the river : 
“I — I — want to row down there, and I 
can't — I can't." 

“Of course you can't row against this 
tide, little man; you ain't strong enough; 
you look puny. You hadn't never ought 
to come out so far in the river alone; the 
tide runs too strong here. Get in my boat. 
That's it," as Willie leaped over. “Now 
we’ll hitch your egg shell on behind and 
tow her down. We'll get a little nearer 
shore first." 

How easily the man used the oars, and 
how fast he made the two boats glide down 
the river against the tide! Willie envied 
him his strong arms and powerful build. 
His peace of mind had returned, and his 
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eyes were bright as he caught sight of 
the roof of the house where he knew 
auntie was anxiously waiting for his 
return. The man spoke: 

“Where do you want to go, sonny ?” 

“Down there,” said William, “not much 
farther. And there is an island I must 
go to first, where I left my brother and 
sister.” 

“An island,” said the man, mystified; 
“there ain’t no island hereabouts.” 

Willie exclaimed with delight when he 
saw the little dock that he had left; it 
seemed now so very long ago. He looked 
for the island — it was gone! Was it pos- 
sible he was mistaken? No, that certainly 
was the dock where he had found the boat. 
But the island — where was it? He rubbed 
his eyes, and looked again. They were 
quite near the dock now. 

“Is it here, sonny?” said the man, 
kindly, “where you want to land?” 

“But the island — the island,” cried Wil- 
lie, pointing, “there was an island right 
there, where I left my brother and sister.” 

Then the man understood. 

“You mean a little mud bank that’s only 
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seen at low tide. That's been under water 
for some time." 

With a piteous cry Willie threw himself 
in the bottom of the boat and sobbed. 

“They're drowned, they're drowned, and 
it's all my fault. Oh, why did I disobey? 
I can’t go home, I can't go home." 

“Tut, tut, don't go on so, sonny. Some 
one took 'em ashore, be sure of that. Too 
many folks round these diggins to allow 
that sort o' thing. Cheer up — cheer up, 
and let's land." 

Two or three bold strokes, and the man, 
with his slightly reassured charge, were at 
the dock where the owner of the small 
“tow" and his father stood, and had easily 
read the entire tale of woe, as they saw 
the two boats draw near, and distinctly 
heard the boy's cries and the man's com- 
forting words. A sight of Willie's pitiful, 
tear-stained face prevented the scolding 
that was ready for him; and instead he 
was told that if he ran up the hill he would 
find his little brother and sister alive and 
quite well. 

Willie did not wait to be told twice, but 
scampered as hard as he could. To his 
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credit be it said, as he started to run, he 
looked back and called: “Fm awfully 
sorry I took your boat.” 

On his way up the hill he met two men 
with poor auntie ; the latter, too anxious to 
remain quietly in the house, had started 
with them to search for the missing child. 
The shout of “Here he is ! Here's the boy !” 
reached the house, and down came 
tumbling everyone. Willie was kissed 
and hugged, and really felt quite like a 
hero for a few minutes, although his con- 
science did not let him forget that he had 
done wrong, and given much pain and 
suffering to others besides himself. 

When they reached the house he said: 

“I suppose it's almost night, auntie.” 

Auntie laughed. She saw by his face 
he had suffered enough for his fault, and 
did not chide him. 

“Look at the clock, Willie; you have 
been away just two hours, and soon we 
shall have our luncheon.” 

And how good that luncheon did taste! 
What appetites they did have after the 
fortunately short-lived anxiety ! The 
chicken, hot rolls, dainty salads, the early 
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strawberries and ice cream! Afterwards 
they took a long walk through the woods, 
and visited a quarry, the first they had 
ever seen. They reached home for an 
early tea, and then came goodbys and 
promises to meet again; and auntie sat 
once more in the train with five very 
happy children. 

When they arrived home, all but Willie, 
who stood with a guilty look on his face 
in a corner, rushed into their mother's 
and father’s arms. And it was hard to 
make head or tail of the many things the 
children tried, all talking together, to tell 
them. Auntie had determined not to spoil 
the pleasure by telling of the escapade on 
the water. Morgan’s and Anne’s suffer- 
ing having been so very brief, they had 
forgotten that part of it, and in fact 
looked upon it as one of the glorious ad- 
ventures of the day, to be told of with 
pride. So you may imagine how puzzled 
the good parents were as they listened to 
detached fragments of a tale of playing 
Robinson Crusoe on an island that sank in 
the water. And how surprised was 
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mamma when Willie threw himself, sob- 
bing, in her arms with: 

u 0h, mamma, mamma, I never will dis- 
obey again. I will be a good boy.” 

Soon all four Little Pitchers and Cousin 
Mary were sweetly sleeping; and papa, 
mamma and auntie knelt down, and 
thanked their Heavenly Father that He 
had, in His mercy, brought their children 
through the danger they little dreamed 
they had been in, safely back, unharmed, 
to the home nest. 


108 


CHAPTER IX 


The Birthday 

A NNE'S birthday came in warm 
weather, when plenty of lovely 
flowers were blooming, and for the pretty 
celebration could be had in abundance for 
decoration. The sun shone, but not too 
warm for comfort. The little girls looked 
with pardonable vanity and pride upon 
two new dainty white frocks, and pale 
blue sashes, just arrived, ready to don for 
the afternoon. The drawing-room was 
shut to all but the grown people. That 
delightful mystery at such times was 
always so pleasant: the running back 
and forward with big and little boxes; 
the pound, pound, pound of a hammer all 
the morning; the ringing of the door-bell 
and parcels handed in. Never were chil- 
dren so happy, it seemed, especially Anne, 
for she knew she was the queen of the 
day. 

At last the happy hour came, when the 
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whole second floor was in readiness, in 
which to receive and keep the invited 
guests until they had all arrived. A host 
of little girls and boys, the girls looking 
like so many sweet flowers, all in white 
with many colored ribbons flying. There 
were almost as many grown people, too; 
among them dear Aunt Fanny Barrow, the 
wonderful writer for children, whose love 
for the Little Pitchers’ parents made their 
funny “monkeys” very dear to her. Sev- 
eral clergymen also were present, — not the 
long-faced, solemn kind, threatening hell- 
fire if you laughed aloud — but jolly, merry 
ones. 

When all the guests had come, the Rec- 
tor stood among them, and clapped his 
hands. One would have thought by the 
sudden silence that followed there was a 
cruel task-master demanding their atten- 
tion instead of the kindest and dearest 
of men. Then he spoke : 

“Now all please form in couples in a 
line. Each will receive a small sheet on 
which are the words of the little proces- 
sional song we shall sing. As there is 
only one stanza, I beg you to repeat it until 
no 


OUR LITTLE PITCHERS 


we are all settled in the drawing-room/' 
A long line was formed, children first, 
of course, headed by the queen of the day, 
with a pretty boy her own age. Aunt 
Fanny and the Little Pitchers' mamma, 
the smallest women in the room, insisted 
upon going down with the tallest men, big 
“six footers." And they did look so funny 
everyone laughed. Aunt Susan hummed 
a well-known tune over once, all could 
easily put to the words of the processional 
song, and then the march downstairs was 
started, everyone singing from his heart : 

“Come, children, and join in our festival 
song, 

And hail the sweet joys which this day 
brings along. 

We'll join our glad voices in one hymn of 
praise, 

To God who has kept us, and lengthened 
our days. 

Chorus : 

Happy birthday to all, 

Happy birthday, 

Happy birthday, 

Happy birthday to all !" 
ill 


OUR LITTLE PITCHERS 


The drawing-room door was wide open 
now, and the procession filed in, never 
ceasing the singing until the last couple 
had arrived, and then all stood still while 
the last words of the chorus rang out 
sweet and clear: “Happy birthday to 
alir 

Some had seen similar sights in the big 
room before, but those who never had 
stood enthralled at the lovely picture. At 
one end stood a beautiful birthday altar, 
made high in tiers, full of nooks and 
corners, little square, irregular steps, from 
the floor on all sides to the center, all 
covered with spotless white and edged 
with green leaves, and the whole built 
with most artistic effect. Above this was 
on the wall, in big letters of red and gold : 


“OUR LITTLE TYRANT.” 


On the altar were arranged flowers and 
many pretty birthday gifts for Anne, 
which made her speechless with joy. And 
directly in the centre was the huge birth- 
day cake, with not the small candles 
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usually seen around birthday cakes, but 
large ones that were expected to burn all 
through the happy afternoon. And back 
of this loomed the very large life candle, 
which, as on all the birthdays, was lighted 
at noon and never blown out until mid- 
night. Flowers and great green branches, 
fresh from the country, were everywhere. 
At one end of the room was erected a 
throne, draped in red and yellow, a 
crown of gilt, with pale blue ribbons, and 
a tiny sceptre at the foot. The blinds were 
all drawn, and the gas lighted — few elec- 
tric lights in those days. After the guests 
had looked at everything to their heart’s 
content, a tall figure appeared in a long 
robe of ermine (only it was not real 
ermine, of course), and an extraordinary 
arrangement on his head that looked like 
a red silk sash wound round and round, 
with the ends hanging over the left ear. 
He had a pole in his hand, covered with red 
and gold paper; he pounded on the floor 
at every step. His face was hidden with 
a long white beard, but his voice sounded 
very much like that of the Rector’s young 
assistant, as he called out: “Make way 
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for the Queen ! Make way for the Queen !” 
Everyone fell back, and then appeared 
little Anne, borne on the clasped hands of 
auntie and a friend just auntie’s height, 
with her arms around their necks. Slowly 
they approached the throne, while every- 
one bowed. Anne tittered a little as she 
mounted the steps and took her seat, but 
everyone else was very serious. It would 
have been disrespectful for the queen’s 
subjects to have laughed, too. Then the 
Rector came forward, took the tiny crown, 
and placed it on Anne’s head with: “We 
crown thee, little Majesty, Queen Anne, 
for the day.” 

Everyone bowed low again. Then the 
sceptre was placed in her hand, and she 
did look so pretty, her subjects all wanted 
to kiss her. But they knew it would be 
an undignified action to rush at a queen 
just crowned, so refrained. 

Plays then began, and Queen Anne cer- 
tainly was not going to be shut out from 
the fun, so she ran down the steps of her 
throne, crown and all, in quite an un- 
queenly way, and joined the others. One 
game was extremely funny, called “This 
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is a very solemn occasion.’’ Grown and 
little people, all together, sat on the floor in 
a big ring, their faces very serious. Then 
one, turning to his right hand neighbor, 
said: “This is a very solemn occasion.” 
His neighbor did the same at his right, 
and so it passed on all around the room, 
and, whenever anyone smiled or tittered, 
out of the ring he went. And, of course, 
the ring, under these circumstances, grew 
smaller and smaller, until the only one 
who had kept a perfectly straight, solemn 
face all through the game, was pronounced 
the winner, and received the prize. It was 
impossible for the children to keep from 
laughing outright, and often seven or eight 
had to quit the ring at a time. It was too 
funny to hear the deep voices of the men, 
and see the faces they made when they 
drawled out, rolling the “r” : “This — is — a 
— ver-r-r-y solemn — occasion.” And 
when it came to little Aunt Fanny, and 
her voice went up to a high squeak, 
nine were driven out into the hall, and 
some were grown people, too. The fun- 
niest of all was when only two were left — 
clergymen. It was certainly a ridiculous 
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sight, to see these two men sitting in the 
middle of the room on the floor, facing 
each other, both perfectly serious, and 
each trying so hard to make the other 
smile, while all the rest were holding their 
sides, and leaning up against the wall, 
convulsed with laughter. They kept it up 
for four or five minutes, and at last the 
glimmer of a smile came on the face of 
one, and the other sprang up the victor. 
Then they both joined in the hearty laugh- 
ing. Someone came forward and pre- 
sented the winner with a gold pen with 
pearl handle, looking very pretty in its 
bed of white satin. Surprised and sin- 
cerely pleased, the clergyman made a little 
speech, in which he said he could truth- 
fully say he had never been to such an 
interesting birthday party before, and that 
the pen would be kept by him, and used, 
as long as he lived, as a souvenir of one of 
his merriest, happiest days. He had 
scarcely ceased speaking when the door- 
bell rang sharply, and in a minute in 
walked, unannounced, two strange little 
women, dressed most peculiarly, in the 
fashion of fully ten years before that 
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time. They wore old-time bonnets, with 
little frills at the back of the neck, tied 
under the chin, hoop-skirts, quaint man- 
tillas, and mitts. They wore heavy veils 
over their faces, and each carried a real 
old genuine carpet-bag and hat-box. They 
stood a minute looking round the room as 
if embarrassed, and then one spoke in a 
shrill, high-pitched nasal voice: 

“We're country cousins; just come from 
the village of Sydam, in the northern part 
of Maine. We heerd our minister cousin 
was a great preacher down here in New 
York, so when we decided to come here and 
see the sights, we just thought we'd come 
to his house first thing, but I'm afeerd 
we've struck a wrong time. Are we in- 
trudin'?" 

The Rector, looking rather grave, said 
in a low tone : 

“Not at all, Madame; not at all." 

The young assistant, who was standing 
near, stepped forward with a chair, bowed 
politely, saying: 

“Be seated, Madame." 

Another chair was offered to her com- 
panion, and they both sat down, depositing 
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their baggage on the floor beside them. 
They continued their curious gazing round 
the room. Everyone was still, and did not 
seem to know what to do or say, when the 
Rector’s dear little wife stepped forward, 
and with one of her pretty old-time bows 
(which she retained to the end of her life) 
said graciously: 

“Ladies, you are certainly most welcome 
in my house, but will you kindly tell me 
how you are related to my husband?” 

The little women lifted their heavy veils, 
disclosing the faces of Aunt Maggie and 
Aunt Susan. Need I describe the laugh 
that followed? My readers can well 
imagine it. And no one joined in more 
heartily than did the Rector’s wife, who 
had to own that she had been completely 
deceived. The Rector complimented his 
sister and sister-in-law on their marvelous 
acting, and begged them to keep on their 
old attire the rest of the afternoon, which 
they did. They took off their bonnets and 
put on big caps over their funny wigs. 
The band-boxes were opened, and old- 
fashioned headgear pulled out, in which 
some of the people dressed. The children 
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“ Happy birthday to all ! 


\ 






OUR LITTLE PITCHERS 


fairly howled with laughter over one cler- 
gyman, who did look so comical with a 
nightcap tied under his chin. 

At last six o’clock came, and orders 
again to form for a march. Queen Anne 
was borne this time by her papa and a 
friend. Just in front walked two little 
boys, who held a waiter, on which was 
placed the birthday cake, all singing again 
the song, “Happy birthday to all !” 

Round and round the drawing-room and 
hall they marched, and into the supper- 
room, where such good things were served ; 
no one wanted to go home to dinner, I 
assure you. 

Queen Anne cut her cake with a big 
carving knife, her hand held by the strong 
one of the dear Rector. 

Soon nurses, carriages and parents 
came for the little guests, and before they 
left someone suggested: “Three cheers 
for the Rector and his family.” After 
which many small as well as big people 
went out of the Rectory door to their 
homes, feeling that happy day was one 
they should never forget. 


121 


CHAPTER X 


The Visit of a Week 
HERE was great excitement one day 



-■* at the Rectory. The little girls felt 
very important. They had been invited to 
spend a week, without mamma or auntie, 
at a friend's beautiful country place. The 
good father of the family was to call at 
the Rectory for them that afternoon, and 
many were the discussions over what 
frocks, hats, coats, etc., they ought to take. 
At last the small trunk was packed and the 
little girls ready to travel, what seemed to 
them a long distance, but was in reality 
only a half-hour's journey from the city. 
Then mamma took her daughters aside, 
and gave them some kind, motherly advice. 

“Now, darlings, you know a mother 
loves to have her children beloved and 
admired by her friends, and we attract or 
repel love by our own actions. Now please 
mamma by trying your best to be ladylike 
and good. Obey implicitly dear, kind Mrs. 


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C. and her daughters. Speak in low voices, 
and do not talk much. Be most careful of 
what you say. Do not speak ill of others, 
and not at all when older people are talk- 
ing around you, and never interrupt. ,, 

She kissed the happy little ones, and 
waved a goodby as they drove away with 
their caretaker. Soon they were unpack- 
ing their small trunk in a pretty room 
with posies all over the wall and bed- 
spread, which delighted Anne's heart. The 
window overlooked a lawn with beautiful 
trees beyond, hiding, the children knew, 
rocks and hills, and little gorges, which 
they could hardly wait to roam and play 
among. Oh, such possibilities for the mak- 
ing of miniature gardens, tiny stone walls 
and houses! 

It was summer and the weather fortu- 
nately perfect. The wonderful little gar- 
dens, houses, walls and bowers were made 
on large flat rocks; and the sweet hostess 
and her daughters were taken with great 
pride to view it all. Our Little Pitchers 
learned to play croquet, and, altogether, 
the time passed too quickly. 

One warm afternoon, the latter part of 
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the happy week, All Heart and Anne, their 
arms around each other, were walking to- 
ward the two big gate posts at the entrance 
of the grounds. They were talking about 
home, which they were so soon to see 
again; and the delights of the past week 
they were to relate to the dear ones, always 
ready listeners. They regretted leaving 
the lovely country, and yet their hearts 
were beginning to yearn for the loved and 
loving at home. As All Heart looked up 
at the gateposts, she noticed that on the 
top were large square slabs of stone. 

“How those do look like pedestals,” she 
said to Anne. “They ought to have 
statues on them.” 

Very creative and full of imagination, 
they both seemed to think of the same 
thing together. 

“Let's get up and make ourselves into 
statues. Then when people drive by they’ll 
see us, and it will be like looking at 
statues ; that is, if we can keep very still.” 

They looked down at their gingham 
aprons. 

“These won’t do,” said Anne, “we must 
be all in white.” 


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They scampered back to the house and 
changed their dark aprons for long white 
ones. 

“Now we must cover up our dark hair, 
and take off our shoes,” said Anne, when 
they had settled themselves on top of the 
big posts, after much hard work in get- 
ting there. She felt, as she was the artist, 
she must take the whole management into 
her hands. Their shoes were soon dropped 
on the ground, and then taking their 
handkerchiefs, they knotted the corners, 
and put them on their heads, turning the 
knots under by Anne's orders, so they 
“wouldn't look like horns.” 

“Now, quick,” said the little stage man- 
ager, “we must decide about our poses, 
and then, when we see a carriage coming, 
pose and keep as still as statues. We can't 
help our brown faces, but can shut our 
eyes, and all the rest of us will be like 
marble.” 

Anne decided upon All Heart's repre- 
senting “Prayer,” kneeling with both 
hands crossed on her breast, and herself a 
dancing girl. So, standing in her little 
white stockings, she pointed her toe grace- 
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fully and held her apron out at the sides. 
A carryall appeared in the distance. 

“Quick, All Heart, fix yourself! Shut 
your eyes tight, and don't laugh." 

They took their poses, and the carriage, 
carrying five people, drew near. The 
children, of course, did not see it, but 
heard the horses stop directly in front of 
them. Then out of the silence broke a 
merry peal of laughter, that, to the most 
sensitive children's ears, spoke nothing but 
thoroughly good-natured amusement. With 
their sense of humor the statues them- 
selves began to turn into human beings, 
and soon became two little girls sitting on 
the posts, joining heartily in the merry 
laugh. Of course they were questioned as 
to whose children they were, their names, 
the length of the visit, etc., etc., and then 
the carriage drove away. The posing was 
repeated several times, always with the 
same results ; and it was afterwards 
learned that the first spectators, on meet- 
ing friends, begged them to be sure and 
drive past Mr. C.'s house and see two very 
funny little girls posing on the gateposts. 

The day for returning home arrived, 
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u Shut your eyes tight ’ 







OUR LITTLE PITCHERS 


and, child-like, the subject of packing 
filled the minds of our small friends. Sev- 
eral members of the family and maids 
offered to do it, but the little girls were so 
earnest in their entreaties to pack them- 
selves, permission was given, on condition 
that, before the trunk was locked, it was to 
be examined, as well as closets and bureau 
drawers. Anne and All Heart hurried up- 
stairs and began proceedings at once. 
They had collected many treasures they 
were determined to carry home ; thus 
their anxiety to pack themselves. 

4 ‘Grandma will call it ‘clutter,’ ” said 
All Heart, eyeing the big pile of woodland 
gatherings with which they hastily lined 
the bottom of the trunk. Then they began 
to place clothing and other things on top. 
But their treasures occupied so much room 
it was found impossible to shut the cover 
when all packing was finished, although 
the girls jumped up and down on it to- 
gether. They both agreed they would 
leave nothing behind, and taking out two 
rather heavy little frocks, one belonging to 
Anne and the other to All Heart, and also 
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two thin ones, they managed to close the 
lid. 

“Now, how can we get these home?” 
said All Heart thoughtfully ; “if we do 'em 
up in a package Miss Lillie or Miss Vir- 
ginia will be sure to say, if they came in 
the trunk they could go back in it; and 
then empty out all the clothes, and make 
us leave some of our stones and things.” 

The Little Pitchers generally found 
ways out of difficulties, and now some- 
thing occurred to Anne that at once settled 
the question. 

“We can put on all the frocks,” she said. 
“The thin ones first, and then the ones 
we've grown a little too big for; then ths 
largest, and those will cover up both the 
others; and hurry, or someone will catch 
us dressing.” 

Just as the last button was fastened 
there were heard steps on the stairs. Two 
of Mrs. C.'s daughters entered the room, 
and lifting the still unlocked lid of the 
trunk, refolded, smoothed and patted a 
few things on top; then with a hasty 
glance about the room, and in the closets, 
to see nothing was left behind, pronounced 
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the work very good for such little girls, 
both of whom were relieved when they 
saw the trunk-key turned in its lock. 

“Don’t you feel your things tight?” said 
Anne, when the children were alone again. 

“Yes, and awfully warm,” said All 
Heart, taking a long breath, “but I think 
we can stand it.” And with a martyr-like 
endurance they waited patiently for the 
carriage to take them to the station. They 
overheard the man who took charge of the 
trunk remark: 

“That trunk’s small, but awful deceivin’. 
Guess it’s full o’ books.” 

Goodbys were said and two very warm 
little girls were whirled away to New 
York, and were soon in the arms of their 
parents. 

The little trunk and they arrived to- 
gether in their room, and the unpacking 
begun by auntie, when mamma suggested 
cooler garments for the children, who cer- 
tainly did look most uncomfortably warm. 
Imagine the surprise and amusement 
when she saw six little frocks drop to the 
floor. Then came an exclamation from 
auntie, who had started to take out of the 
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trunk five huge stones, sticks and branches 
of all sizes, ferns, cones, etc., etc. 

“And that is the reason my little girls 
had to wear six frocks instead of two!” 
said mamma, laughing heartily. 

“Oh, mamma,” pleaded Anne, “we did 
want them so much. We want to build up 
a rockery in the yard. And look at the 
stones. See how many colors they have, 
and the bright little specks all through 
them that look like diamonds.” 

Then grandma came, and there were 
more kisses of welcome; and she did call 
the treasures “clutter,” but her teasing 
was always so funny and good-natured the 
children were never hurt by it. So the 
home-coming was happy, as had been also 
the pleasant visit of a week. 


132 


CHAPTER XI 


The Gypsy Camp 

S IX weeks in the country, and without 
mamma and papa ! 

“It reminds me of the ‘Rose and the 
Thorn/ " said All Heart. “The green grass, 
daisies, lovely trees, the brooks, and the 
freedom to run, run, run and tumble and 
roll on the ground to my heart's content, 
without hearing ‘Child, walk nicely and 
behave like a lady!’ That's the Rose, and 
the Thorn is — no dear papa and mamma, 
and poor anxious auntie, tying us close to 
her the whole time, so afraid something 
will happen to us." 

“And we must look at the ‘Rose’ and not 
at the ‘Thorn,' " said Anne, philosophi- 
cally, “and you know how nice it will be 
to have Alice with us." 

Now Alice was a little cousin they did 
not see often, and she was All Heart's 
heroine; in her eyes a paragon of perfec- 
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tion. Seven months younger than she, 
and yet how much better she played the 
piano! How wonderfully and without 
effort she could read, and pronounce long 
words, too, which were like Greek to All 
Heart! How far ahead in her studies of 
other children her age she was, and yet 
so unspoiled, and unconscious of the fine 
mind, which made her cousin’s prophecy 
correct : “We are going to be very proud 
of Alice sometime.” 

And so, on a beautiful summer’s day, 
a train drew up in a small station, and the 
four Little Pitchers descended, with aun- 
tie, and flew toward their sweet cousin, 
who stood with her much-envied golden 
curls that never would “brush flat down,” 
and big blue eyes, delighted but quite over- 
come with four children, all trying to hug 
and kiss her at once. 

The walk through the woods to the cot- 
tage they were to call “home” for six 
weeks was enjoyed as only city-bred chil- 
dren could enjoy it. The branches were 
full of birds, all piping and trilling their 
evening songs. The sun was setting in a 
clear sky, making long shadows on the 
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paths. The children were very happy, 
merrily planning good times ahead. 

And oh, what good times they were! 
Picnics, drives, and hours spent in the 
woods, climbing trees and wading in the 
brooks! And on rainy days, romps and 
plays in a big barn full of lofts and sweet 
hay to roll and tumble in; while Anne 
spent many happy hours sketching a 
horse ! 

It was a pleasant but hot day, about 
three weeks after the children's arrival 
in the country. Auntie and Willie drove 
away in the early morning to spend the 
day with friends. Anne and Morgan took 
no interest in anything at that time, but 
a small house they were trying to build 
in a part of a wood very near home. Alice 
and All Heart watched the builders awhile, 
without much interest. Anne directed 
Morgan, and they twined branches to- 
gether and tied them to long sticks they 
had sharpened and driven into the moist 
ground the day before, forming four walls, 
at the bottom of which they piled stones a 
foot high, in and out side the tiny abode. 
So intent were they, they did not hear the 
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conversation in low tones of their sister 
and cousin. 

“Yes, I saw them all go down the road, 
Alice. Wagons with great canvas covers, 
and a big truck with tent poles and tents 
all rolled up.” 

“They were real gypsies, were they?” 

“I should think they were — the real 
thing. I have heard so much about them, 
and I want to see one of their camps.” 

Since All Heart had seen a gypsy camp 
at the theatre, she had conceived a strong 
desire to see one in real life. The bright 
colors, snowy tents, and picturesque girls 
and children, with their becoming cos- 
tumes, glittering jewelry and tambourines, 
that had been witnessed before the foot- 
lights, she had no doubt would be dupli- 
cated in the camp of the gypsies she had 
seen pass by. 

“Yes,” said Alice, “John, the gardener, 
told me some gypsies were not far away. 
Wouldn't it be nice to see them; and do 
you think there is a fortune-teller among 
them? I have never seen a real fortune- 
teller in my life.” 

“Of course we must see them. Let's 
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find out where they are,” said All Heart, 
now determined to realize her long-hoped- 
for desire. 

The two little girls hardly heard the 
cries of joy from Anne and Morgan : “ Hur- 
rah, hurrah ! Now our house is ready for 
the roof !” as they walked away. John was 
found and eagerly questioned. Where 
did he think the gypsies were? 

“A good two mile and a half, Miss Alice, 
if not more. Jimmy, my son, see ’em 
camped out near a wood, a half a mile 
from a little village called Upham.” 

All Heart spoke earnestly: “Do you 
think we could walk there and get back 
before six?” 

“Don’t know; depends on how fast you 
walk, and I wouldn’t think of it to-day, sis, 
it’s very hot, and these dirty gypsies is a 
rovin’ people, and they may have gone 
miles and miles away by now.” 

All Heart’s face fell. Was she to be 
disappointed, just as she was about to 
realize a dream in which she had pictured 
herself among strange, pretty, dark-eyed 
people, speaking a language unknown to 
her, attired in bright-colored silk and vel- 
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vet, and dancing to weird singing and 
tambourines ? She thought it so unkind in 
John to call them “dirty gypsies,” and was 
more than ever determined to try at least 
to find them. 

Now All Heart would never be even 
tempted deliberately to disobey a com- 
mand, but her conscience told her had she 
and Alice asked permission of auntie to go 
alone on a search for a gypsy camp, it 
would have been denied. She stilled, how- 
ever, the “small voice” by saying to her- 
self : 

“Auntie hasn’t told us not to go, so we 
are really not disobeying.” 

Alice felt much the same, but neither of 
them spoke their thoughts as they trudged 
along the dusty road under the hot sun to- 
ward the village of Upham. 

In order to be sure they were taking the 
right direction, they stopped nearly every 
person they met, asked for information, 
adding “and do you know if there is a 
gypsy camp near here?” 

“Gypsies! Yes,” said an old man in a 
cart they had stopped after having walked 
fully a mile and a half. “Now where did I 
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see ’em yesterday? — right over that hill, 
not fur from Upham. But what be you 
two little ladies goin’ to gypsies fur, you 
look tired and hot — live fur from here?” 

The children were tired, and most un- 
comfortable with thirst and hunger; but 
they smiled heroically and said they only 
wanted to see the gypsies, and started to 
mount the hill indicated by the old man, 
who whipped up his horses and drove 
away. 

Half way up, the children came upon a 
cottage, where a little woman in a sun- 
bonnet was weeding a garden. All Heart 
timidly asked her for some water, and, 
their thirst relieved, they walked with 
fresh courage up the hill, from the top of 
which they felt quite sure they would see 
the camp. 

On reaching the summit, they strained 
their eyes in every direction, and saw 
nothing but a few houses scattered here 
and there. To one they went and inquired 
if some gypsies were near. 

“Some gypsies? Yes, about a mile 
through the wood, near Upham.” 

Another mile! Could they tramp it? 

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It was getting late, but now that they 
were so near the end of their quest, and it 
would be cooler in the wood, it was too bad 
to turn back. Thirst began to trouble 
them again, and they hoped for a sight 
of a brook under the trees, which they 
found, — not clear, sweet water, rippling 
over stones, but a rather slow-moving 
stream with a muddy bottom. Still it 
would refresh them, and they knelt on 
the soft turf, and put their faces in the 
cool water. Suddenly the ground gave 
way under them, and, one dragging the 
other after her, they rolled into the brook, 
striking heavily a bed of mud and slime. 
They scrambled out and looked dolefully 
at each other. At last Alice spoke : 

“We might wash our frocks and hang 
them up to dry, before we go on.” 

All Heart thought a moment. 

“No, we couldn’t make them look much 
better, and they will dry in the sun as we 
walk along, and then we can rub out the 
mud. We mustn’t wait here any longer 
or we’ll be late home.” 

When they left the wood they were re- 
warded by the sight of tents, about a quar- 
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ter of a mile away, and their spirits, 
which had been much dampened by all 
that had happened, rose as they ap- 
proached the camp. 

The picture All Heart had formed in her 
mind of an entrance to the camp resem- 
bled what she had seen at the Play, — she, 
the principal figure, being most graciously 
and cordially welcomed by a crowd of pic- 
turesque people. 

Instead, she saw a few slatternly women 
in torn and faded garments; rough men, 
and children scantily attired, sitting on 
the ground before tents that had long since 
lost all whiteness. Horses were grazing 
near, and wagons ranged in a line, formed 
a background to the rather uninteresting 
picture, before which Alice and All Heart 
stood, pitiable looking objects, covered 
with mud from hats to shoes, and their 
wet frocks hanging limp around them. 

The gypsies returned their gaze stupid- 
ly at first, but when the children showed 
no inclination to move on, they looked at 
them with some curiosity. 

“It may be more interesting than it 
looks,” said All Heart, after the first shock 
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of disappointment was over. “Maybe 
there is a fortune-teller somewhere — and 
the inside of the tents is nicer.” 

She was bravely trying to act in the 
little drama she had been rehearsing all 
day, and make the best of what she found, 
carrying home a pretty tale of adventure. 

Wheels were heard, and a vehicle hold- 
ing four people stopped near them, out of 
which a child jumped and began to pick 
daisies. The ladies in the carriage looked 
curiously at the camp and the two mud- 
bespattered children. To All Heart’s hor- 
ror she recognized the wife and child of 
one of the wealthiest land owners of the 
neighborhood, friends of auntie, and with 
whom they expected to spend a day the 
next week. 

Distinctly they heard the words “Gyp- 
sies — yes — ” and calling to the child, “Lil- 
lian, dear, don’t go too near.” 

The little girl stopped suddenly in her 
search for daisies, on recognizing Alice 
and All Heart, and started to run toward 
them, but was checked suddenly by her 
mother, who had gone to her and seized 
her by the arm. 


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“My child, be careful, come away.” 

“But, mamma, I know them, and you 
do, too. Don't you remember the clergy- 
man’s children from New York, and their 
cousin?” 

All Heart tried to hide herself behind 
Alice, and both heard the answer as Lil- 
lian and her mother stepped into the car- 
riage : 

“No, my child, you imagine it is they. 
To you they may look like your friends, 
but they are only two little gypsy chil- 
dren.” 

The cousins could see Lillian’s face 
turned toward them, and on it a puzzled 
expression, full of wonder, until the car- 
riage disappeared round a curve in the 
road. 

“Oh, wouldn’t it have been dreadful if 
they had really recognized us?” said All 
Heart. “How awful we must look!” 

By this time some of the gypsies were 
gathered round the children, who ven- 
tured to ask if they might sit down to 
rest. To All Heart’s astonishment she 
found they could speak English, although 
it was very poor, and their voices were 
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coarse and guttural. A man brought two 
stools and placed them at the opening of 
a tent, and All Heart had a chance to look 
inside. She saw some dirty mattresses, 
with blankets thrown carelessly on them, 
a rickety chair and table, and shabby 
clothes hung on nails driven into poles 
that supported the tent. 

“Is there a fortune-teller among you?” 
Alice asked timidly. 

At this question one of the women called 
out, in a cracked voice, some strange words 
the cousins could not understand, and out 
of one of the tents crawled an old hag, 
with a cane, and a ragged shawl over her 
head. When one of the women whispered 
something in her ear, she came over to the 
children, looking at them from head to 
foot and shook her head, muttering “no 
good, no good.” 

All Heart was quick to see it was money 
the old woman wanted, and hastened to 
take a small purse from her pocket and 
hold it up. 

The old face changed at once, and in an 
affected tone the woman said, in her 
cracked voice: 


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“And will the young ladies have their 
fortunes told?” 

All Heart nodded, and, taking a half dol- 
lar from her purse, held it out, saying: “Is 
that enough for two fortunes?” 

The woman grabbed it and putting it 
in her pocket, sat down on a rock, beck- 
oning to the children to come and stand 
beside her. 

All Heart winced as she put out her 
hand by request, and the tips of her little 
fingers were held by a brown, dirty, knot- 
ted hand, with long, black nails ; although, 
truth to say, the little hand held was not 
much cleaner. 

“A nice little girl, a very nice good little 
girl,” croaked the old woman, “and a long 
life ahead. Here's an illness, a bad 'un, 
but ye'll come out of it all right. And 
here's some happy days — yes, happy, but 
there comes a break, sadness, great 
trouble, but ” 

“Oh, don't, don't go on,” cried All Heart, 
trying to pull her hand away ; but the hag 
held it firmly, and said: 

“Tut, tut, child, it won't last forever, 
and here comes a happiness after it, such 
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as ye never dreamed of — aye, never could 
imagine it, it is so heavenly, — a great, 
great joy.” 

She said this last earnestly, for All 
Heart's frightened face alarmed her. 

Alice listened with interest and won- 
dered at the creature's power of speech. 
Somehow the words did not go with her 
looks and attire. 

“And now this little lady,” as Alice 
held out her hand, “she is a bright child, 
and has a long life, too, and trouble, aye, 
trouble, but patience ye must have, and 
great peace and happiness will come.” 

Both the children were glad when the 
ordeal was over, much as they had wanted 
the experience. 

As they had earnestly listened to the 
fortune-teller a rough man with a grizzly 
beard had stood near them, and Alice 
shrank from his touch, as he laid his hand 
on her shoulder and fingered a fine gold 
chain around her neck, that held what was 
most dear to her, a small locket containing 
her mother's sweet face — the dear parent 
who died in Alice's infancy. 

“Nice chain, pretty,” he had said, grin- 
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ning, and examining the clasp. Then the 
old woman became very earnest, and held 
the children's attention closely for some 
minutes. 

After the fortunes were told the little 
girls were only too glad to say good-bye, 
and, accepting some apples offered them 
and water out of a battered tin cup, they 
started for home, wearied and depressed, 
the words of the old hag — “trouble — trou- 
ble — unhappiness" — ringing in their ears. 

They paused on a hill-top, and, seated 
on some stones, ate their apples ravenous- 
ly, realizing for the first time how hun- 
gry they were. Suddenly All Heart ex- 
claimed : 

“Why, Alice, your chain is gone !" 

The big blue eyes filled with tears and 
Alice choked back a sob. 

“Don't cry," said All Heart sympathet- 
ically, “we'll go back and hunt for it; 
you've dropped it on the road." 

They searched in vain some time, and 
then, discouraged, both sat on the ground 
and burst into tears, never dreaming, in 
their innocence, that the chain and locket 
were quietly reposing in the dirty pocket 
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of the rough man with grizzly beard, who 
had with great skill taken it from Alices 
neck while she was listening intently to 
the fortunes. 

“I’m so sorry, oh, I'm so sorry," sobbed 
All Heart, “and it was I who brought you 
— we never should have come!" 

They were brave little children, how- 
ever, and after drying their eyes, started 
again to mount the hill. 

They had not realized that clouds had 
gathered, and one look at the sky not only 
told them that rain would soon come, but 
that the sun had already set. 

“What shall we do, oh, what shall we 
do?" said Alice, as she wiped off a huge 
drop of rain that fell on her face. 

All Heart pointed to a building not far 
from them. 

“Run to that barn — see, the door is 
open." 

They sank down, relieved for the time 
being, on a soft pile of hay, as the rain 
began to fall in torrents. Soon drowsi- 
ness overcame them, and, lulled by the pat- 
tering raindrops above their heads, the 
two tired children fell asleep. 

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OUR LITTLE PITCHERS 


Suddenly All Heart awoke. It was so 
dark she could see nothing, but she still 
heard the rain on the roof. Alice was 
asleep. All Heart bore the darkness and 
silence as long as she could and then 
gently touched her cousin, who awoke 
with a cry. 

“Oh, where am I — who’s that — what’s 
this?” feeling the hay beneath her. 

“It’s I, Alice, don’t you remember — the 
barn, the gypsies, the fortunes?” 

Alice was wide awake by this time, and 
the two clung together in the darkness. 

“Do you see anything, Alice, out there 
in the dark?” 

“No, it’s only black — black. Do you see 
anything?” 

“Yes — or not exactly — I don’t really see, 
but I seem to see the face of that old for- 
tune-teller.” 

“And now I seem to see the face of that 
awful man, who took hold of my chain. I 
can see his grin and black teeth.” 

“We never, never will go near such peo- 
ple again.” 

“Do you think they’ll come here and kid- 
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nap us? I read about gypsies doing that 
once.” 

“Oh, no,” said All Heart, as cheerfully 
as she could speak. “They don’t know 
where we are ; they think we are at home 
by this time. How I wish we were there, 
and tucked up in our little beds.” 

They talked a while longer and then 
fell asleep again, and were awakened by a 
man’s cheery voice: 

“The Babes in the Wood, as I’m alive! 
And how came ye here?” 

The children rubbed their eyes, and one 
look in the kind face above them dispelled 
all fear. It was not long before their story 
was told, and the man began to plan to get 
them home as soon as possible. 

Although the sun was shining, the air 
had cooled, and the little girls had slept 
well, they felt stiff and ill, and walking 
was out of the question. So the kind old 
farmer harnessed a horse, and, lifting his 
charges into a cart, drove away over the 
ground so wearily traversed the day be- 
fore. 

When auntie and Willie returned at six 
from their pleasant “outing” and found 
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Alice and All Heart had been gone all day, 
the former's condition of mind may be 
well imagined. After John, the gardener, 
had been questioned and well scolded, the 
repentant man was soon speeding toward 
Upham in search of the missing ones. 
Before he reached the camp the rain was 
falling heavily, and very little satisfaction 
could he glean from the gypsies. He 
learned only that the children had been 
there, and had started for home. Some- 
thing in John's face and earnest manner 
filled the rough man with the grizzly beard 
with fear and apprehension, and made him 
slowly draw from his pocket a chain and 
locket, and, handing it to John, said : 

“The little lady dropped it, and — and — 
we found it.” 

“Very likely,” said John, grimly, as he 
jumped into his cart. 

The gypsies, who were all grinning and 
courtesying around him, did not hear the 
sarcasm in his voice. 

John felt sure the children had sought 
refuge somewhere from the rain, and 
stopped at every house to inquire on the 
way home, where, disappointed and thor- 
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oughly alarmed himself, he tried to hide 
his fear and assure auntie that all was 
well, and the missing ones were safe in 
some house for the night. But it was an 
anxious, sleepless night for those in the 
cottage, and the hours seemed interm- 
inable. 

John was out early in the morning, har- 
nessing his fastest horse, to start the 
search again, and his joy knew no bounds, 
when, half way between his home and Up- 
ham, he heard from a cart rapidly ap- 
proaching him: “John, oh, John!” and 
saw Alice and All Heart waving their 
muddy little hats in the air. 

When they rushed into auntie's arms 
they could hardly speak, and only said : 

“Oh, auntie, we're so sorry, and tired, 
and ill ; and our heads ache so, and we can 
hardly walk.” 

The story of the gypsy camp and barn 
had to wait the telling for some days, as 
the little girls were in bed for a week or 
more and under the doctor's care, toss- 
ing in fever and pain, and quite touching 
auntie's heart with constant cries for for- 
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giveness and sorrow that they had given 
so much anxiety. 

When the first dainty meal was brought 
to Alice on a tray, she gave a cry of de- 
light when she saw her chain and precious 
locket lying close to her plate, and with it 
once more around her neck, you may be 
sure the food she ate tasted much better 
than it would have, had the sweet face 
of her mother not been where it was. 

Through the illness of the children the 
visit to little Lillian and her mother had 
been postponed, but at last the Little 
Pitchers, with Alice, found themselves 
actually driving into the beautiful grounds 
they had feared they might never see. 

Alice and All Heart had begged auntie, 
the boys and Anne to say nothing about 
the adventure with the gypsies, the men- 
tion of which seemed to pain them both. 

At the table the hostess felt she would 
greatly amuse her little guests by relating 
to them the story of how her Lillian had 
actually taken two poor little gypsy chil- 
dren for Alice and All Heart, in passing 
by a camp. 

The two subjects of the tale bent over 
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their strawberries and cream, with faces 
as red as the berries they were eating. 
Willie and Morgan, taking advantage of 
the funny story, laughed outright; and 
auntie, with tact, tried to turn the con- 
versation into other channels. 

Lillian made it hard for her, however, 
by twice reiterating: 

'‘But, mamma, those little girls did look 
so much, oh, so much, like Alice and All 
Heart!” 

Time, which waits for no man, brought 
the happy six weeks to a close, and the 
Little Pitchers found themselves at the 
window of a car, bound for home, waving 
a farewell to Alice, who stood on the plat- 
form of the station, with her big blue eyes 
full of tears. 


156 


CHAPTER XII 


The Ewer 

I T is now five years since All Heart and 
Anne ran away to the empty lot. Much 
to the amusement of auntie and mamma, 
the little girls affect at times the manners 
of their elders, although their ages are re- 
spectively eleven and twelve. 

We find them at present seated at the 
big table in the play-room library, All 
Heart slowly turning round and round on 
the third finger of her right hand a new 
simple plain gold band. She is very proud 
of this ring, her first, as it was a reward 
for a letter of three pages, written without 
aid, with not a single mis-spelled word or 
badly expressed sentence. She is talking 
to Anne with great earnestness. 

“We think our paper, or rather maga- 
zine, will be a great success. It is to be 
named ‘The Ewer/ and will come out every 
month. Willie is to be editor, and I as- 
sistant editor. You must be good and 
make all the illustrations. And you won’t 
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mind copying the same pictures six or 
seven times, will you ?” 

All Heart hurried on so as not to give 
Anne a chance to refuse. “Mary and 
Frank and Morgan are all going to be 
asked to send in ‘distributions/ ” She 
paused after the last word, slowly and 
doubtfully spoken. She felt that there was 
something wrong there, but as long as 
Anne did not know the difference, after all 
why should she care. Thus is human na- 
ture self-satisfied in the presence of in- 
feriority. 

“I am to do most of the writing,” she 
continued, “because I write faster than 
Willie, and decide what shall go in each 
paper every month. Willie has learned to 
draw a beautiful ewer; mamma taught 
him. That is to be at the top of the first 
page with the name of the paper above. 

“The first pages will be filled with poems, 
stories and news, and the last will be the 
‘editorial page/ ” This long word she was 
sure of ; Willie had taught her the pronun- 
ciation, and she had studied it hard. 

“What’s ‘editorial' mean?” said the mys- 
tified Anne. 


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'&P 


“ You must be good 










OUR LITTLE PITCHERS 


All Heart looked puzzled. 

“It means — it means — er — well — what 
people say about what they don’t like, or 
what they do like of things that are going 
on in the world. I don’t know anything 
about it, so Willie is going to compose and 
write all that. I surely shall have writing 
enough to do until Willie gets a printing 
press, and learns how to set type. And,” 
with a sigh, “I am afraid that will be a 
long time.” 

“Who is going to take our paper, and 
what are they going to pay for it?” said 
Anne, wondering whether a penny or two 
might find their way into her small purse. 

“Here are the names of our subscrib- 
ers,” answered All Heart, opening a blank- 
book and running her forefinger down the 
list. 

“Auntie Susie, Aunt Maggie, Papa, Mrs. 
Selover, Mrs. R. Hatch, and Grandma. 

“I think that’s enough just now,” in a 
meditative tone of voice, with a vision of 
hours of monotonous copying on her mind. 
“And they are to be five cents apiece. You 
know we must have money to buy the 
paper with, for it has to be a special kind 
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— large sheets.” Then seeing a look of 
disappointment come on Anne's face, 
added, “Oh, but you will have some; you 
ought to for your pictures. We'll give you 
twenty cents a month.” 

The literary enterprise, much encour- 
aged by the parents, was thus begun. 




The Ewer 




PROUD BOB. 

What did I hear you say? See, see, 

High up on the top of yon tall pine tree. 
Why the robin singing as blithe as can be. 
He feels quite grand on his seat so high, 
Never dreaming, never thinking, there's 
anyone nigh. 

Ah, who could but stop on a bright sum- 
mer's day 

To hear the robin’s melodious lay. 

Beautiful warbler, emblem of peace and 
joy, 

Always happy except when some bad boy 
Robs thy pretty nest of all its young. 

I think 'tis mean, but he will call it fun. 

By A . H. 


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THE TWO LITTLE BOYS. 

A little boy was going home from 
school and he found a penny. He saw a 
poor boy, with bare feet and ragged 
clothes, and he gave him the penny, and 
both boys went home happy. 

By Frank C. 


We are sorry to relate that Anne's doll, 
Ella Jane, had a bad fall yesterday, and 
broke her head. We hoped she could be 
sent to the hospital and cured, but find 
that we must get her a new head at Hyde's 
toy store, round the corner. 


There will be a wedding in the play- 
room on the fifteenth, at three o'clock. 
Amanda Snowflake (the bride doll) will 
be married to the new boy doll. Morgan 
will be the clergyman to marry the couple. 

There will be a tea-party after the wed- 
ding. All are cordially invited. 


THE MODERN CINDERELLA. 

A little girl sat weeping in a chimney 
corner. She was the drudge — the one who 
always had the hard work to do. She 
never complained, but patiently labored, 
and was scolded and neglected by sisters 
and parents. But this day it was hard 
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to see the sisters all go away, dressed 
prettily, to a big picnic, and although her 
mother had told her she might go, she did 
not, because she knew she had no frock 
good enough to appear outside the house 
with. 

She saw the sisters drive away in a hay- 
cart, and then sat down and cried. Her 
head resting against the wall near the fire, 
she at last grew sleepy, and began to nod, 
but was suddenly startled by a faint pres- 
sure on her shoulder. She looked up and 
saw a white figure of a beautiful woman, 
with a strange light shining all around 
her. 

“My child,” she said, “unselfishness 
brings more happiness than picnics or fine 
clothes. You will find this out in time. 
You are an unselfish little girl, and will 
have your reward.” 

The vision disappeared as suddenly as 
she came. The little Cinderella rubbed her 
eyes, and wondered if she had been dream- 
ing, for she did feel very sleepy. She 
washed her face in cold water, and then 
began to work, getting the evening meal 
ready for the sisters, and thinking all the 
while of what the lovely apparition had 
said to her ; and somehow she did feel very 
happy. 

One day a good and wealthy man came 
to her home, and chose her to be his wife, 
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although the mean and hateful sisters did 
everything they could to keep her away 
from him. 

She cheerfully helped them look pretty, 
put flowers in their hair when he came, 
and then because she knew they did not 
want her, shut herself up in her room. 
But the man told her one day that he 
loved her, and took her as his wife to his 
beautiful home. The sisters raged and 
fumed. And when the little Cinderella 
would walk around her beautiful gardens, 
and think how now she never was tired 
working, and what a good, loving husband 
she had, she would say: 

“After all, the lovely fairy I saw in the 
vision was right.” 

By A. H. 


THE BATTLEFIELD. 

Two fiery steeds were leaping over the 
battlefield. They had brave men on their 
backs. The battle raged, and when it was 
over the two men were not killed. They 
sat together among the dead and wounded. 
Sad were their faces. One did not speak, 
and looked as if he saw nothing around 
him. His companion pitied him and said : 

“My friend, I suppose your thoughts are 
with your faraway loved ones, perhaps the 
girl you adore.” 


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“No,” he answered sadly, “I was think- 
ing of the good dinner I was missing at 
home.” 

By Morgan. 


PRAISE. 

I went to the window one morning in 
May. 

I felt a sweet breeze as it passed on the 
way. 

I gave thanks to Heaven, to God so light, 

Who sent that sweet breeze from Heaven 
so bright. 

Just then a sweet bird, who had perched 
on a tree, 

Sang his longest and best sweet song to 
me. 

I gave thanks to Heaven again to Him 

Who sent that sweet bird in the green, 
green Spring. 

By A. H . 


LITTLE TIM. 

Little Tim was trudging along with a 
loaf of bread in one hand and a jug of 
milk in the other. The sun was in his 
eyes and blinded him, and he did not see 
a big man coming, and all but trod on his 
toes. 

“Can’t you see where you’re going, 
idiot?” cried a gruff voice, and the man 
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gave him a rude push. Little Tim went 
down with a thud. The milk spilled all 
over the ground, the jug broke, and the 
bread flew into the gutter, where a bad 
boy stood, who quickly picked it up and 
ran with it. Tim sobbed. He dreaded 
going home empty-handed, for his parents 
would be sure to scold, and call him care- 
less. Suddenly he saw at his feet a pocket- 
book, and remembered he had felt some- 
thing drop on his toes when the man 
pushed him, and knew it must belong to 
him. Little Tim thought how nice it would 
be to take it home to his mother, for it 
looked full of money. But something told 
him he would be so much happier if he 
returned the pocket-book to the owner ; so 
he turned and ran and ran so fast he was 
breathless when he reached the big, rude 
man with the gruff voice. 

“Please, sir,” he gasped, “I think you 
dropped your pocket-book.” 

The man felt in his pocket. 

“Bless my soul, so I did. And you are 
the little fellow I knocked down!” 

Then, will you believe it, he took little 
Tim in his arms, and kissed him over and 
over again, and told him he was sorry, 
and gave him a five-dollar bill, which made 
Tim's eyes open wide, for he had never 
had so much money in his hands before. 
And both went their way, one feeling he 
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was a better man, and the other a better 
boy, for the encounter. 

By Mary C. 


THE LITTLE BIRD. 

A little bird sang sweetly, 

One winter's morn to me ; 

I threw him out some crumbs, 
Which he ate quite daintily. 

And then he sang another song, 
More sweetly than the other. 

I threw him out some more crumbs, 
And then he sang another. 

And then he popped his little head, 
And flew away delighted, 

To get some water from the bay, 
And then to come another day. 

I watched him through the window, 
I watched him with my eye, 

And when I saw that he was gone, 

I was inclined to cry. 

By A. H. 


EDITORIAL. 

The Democratic Party and the Repub- 
lican Party are very full of faults. Cannot 
our politicians, who want perfection, 
create a new party? 

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A beautiful house has just been taken 
down on lower Fifth Avenue, and a high 
office building, seven stories, put in its 
place. Can nothing be done to put a stop 
to this doing away with old landmarks, as 
well as destroying the looks of our city? 

The shanties on the rocks are fast dis- 
appearing in upper New York. There will 
go with them a great part of old pictur- 
esque New York. 

I wonder if something can stop the 
nuisance of venders screaming in the 
streets? It is bad for delicate nerves. 
Have we not enough noises without that? 

We hear they are soon to cart away 
snow and ice from our dirty streets. Let 
us be thankful. We can patiently wait 
until the law is enforced, in the happy 
thought of this great improvement in our 
street cleaning. But then, what will be- 
come of our sleighs? 

Why do the public schools put so much 
importance upon arithmetic? The child 
may have great talents for grammar, liter- 
ature and other studies, and be kept back 
because he is not a good arithmetician. Is 
it fair? Some change should be made in 
this respect. 


171 


CHAPTER XIII 


Christmas 

C HRISTMAS ! This word to the Little 
Pitchers meant much more than to 
the average child. To them it meant 
twelve days of rare happiness. From 
Christmas Eve, with its big tree and de- 
lightful party, to Epiphany, the cousins, 
Mary and Frank, were with them. Every 
day some pleasure was planned. As All 
Heart said: “Twelve days in Fairyland.” 
The big tree reaching the ceiling stood at 
one end of the drawing-room, and there re- 
mained, with its often renewed candles, its 
ornaments and gifts, until the Twelfth 
Night gayeties were over. The Christ- 
mas Eve party was opened by the sweet 
carol singing of a large group of lovely 
children gathered around the tree, ablaze 
with lights. After this, on the special 
evening described, little Anne was lifted 
on a small platform, where she, with sweet 
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simplicity and correctness, recited a 
Christmas poem, written by her mother. 
A ringing of sleigh-bells was then heard, 
quite faint at first, then louder and louder, 
until in ran old Santa Claus, in white fur, 
his long beard covered with frost, and 
sleigh-bells around his waist. His pack 
was filled to overflowing, and he dropped 
it on the floor with a big sigh of relief. 
The Rector shook hands with him, and 
talked to him in an unknown language, 
for he said the old man could not under- 
stand English. It sounded very much like 
this: “Apaga Wanga nowa targa,” and 
much more of such jargon. Santa an- 
swered in low tones, pointing to his 
throat. 

“My dear children,” said the Rector, 
“Santa Claus says his journey over the 
housetops has given him such a bad cold 
he cannot speak, but wishes you all, 
through me, a very happy Christmas.” 

Santa then began to take the parcels out 
of his pack, and give them to the children. 
When the pack was emptied, he strapped 
it on his shoulders, and ran out in the hall, 
and upstairs so swiftly no one could follow 
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to see how and where he left the house. 

This excitement over, the big chance- 
bag was brought. This was a peculiar re- 
ceptacle made of several thicknesses of tis- 
sue paper, strong enough to hold many, 
many small parcels, but not strong enough 
to withstand a smart blow from a stick. It 
was hung from the ceiling between the 
folding doors, and then a child was blind- 
folded and placed some little distance from 
it with a stick in his hand. He was then 
told to turn three times round, after which 
to walk slowly toward the bag, and strike 
it hard enough to break the paper and let 
the parcels fall. 

Reader, did you ever try standing in 
front of something, shutting your eyes, 
and then turning three times all the way 
round, expecting, when opening the eyes, 
to find yourself before the same object you 
faced at your first turn? If so, you will 
find when you open your eyes your back 
is much more likely to be turned toward 
the object you expect to see than your face. 

The first little boy turned confidently 
round and round three times, and then the 
Rector said : 


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“Now seven steps, my lad, and then 
strike. ,, 

He took the steps, counting carefully, 
stopped, raised the stick, and brought it 
with a sharp rap against the wall. Some- 
one hastily untied the handkerchief from 
his eyes, and the look of astonishment on 
his face, when he found himself facing the 
wall, was very amusing, but he was soon 
joining in the fun, and laughing as hard 
as any of them. Several others tried, but 
with the same results. It began to look 
as if the bag would have to remain un- 
broken, and that some picture on the wall, 
or a strong man's arm, which was some- 
times held to receive the blow, would be 
broken instead. But at last the good Rec- 
tor came to the rescue, and somehow he 
never failed. The children's hearts beat 
fast with excitement when he stood close 
to the bag, and, raising the stick above 
his head, said: 

“Now, children, stand ready." Then 
with one blow down came the parcels, fly- 
ing in every direction, and you may be 
sure in less than a minute everyone was 
picked up. Then there was “quiet after 
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the storm.” The little ones were very 
busy for some time, opening their bundles, 
and it did one’s heart good to hear the 
cries of delight over the surprises. 

“Just what I wanted for my doll’s 
house!” 

“Jiminy, just the thing for my yacht!” 

“Oh, look, that will fit my baby doll!” 

And many more such exclamations. 

There were plenty of merry games, too, 
all the evening, and a big supper. Then, 
after the lovely hymn, “Holy Night,” was 
sung, came goodbys and sweet dreams. 

The next day, of course, came the big 
Christmas dinner, which every child 
knows all about, and needs no description. 
In the afternoon the dolls had their tree 
and party in the play-room, and the family 
invited to attend. Uncle Charlie and the 
Rector began some of their good-natured 
teasing, which was soon stopped by their 
wives, when they saw the children wanted 
everything taken seriously. So they drank 
“white tea” out of tiny cups, and lemonade 
from glasses as big as thimbles, and pro- 
nounced it all a great success. 

And so the days passed with holiday 
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a 


>> 


Now take seven steps 



OUR LITTLE PITCHERS 


merriment, and New Year’s brought the 
old-time calls, beginning at nine in the 
morning and ending late at night, with not 
a woman to be seen on the streets all day, 
only men tramping from house to house, 
taking New Year’s greetings to their 
friends. Would that the old custom could 
return ! 

The day after New Year’s a notice in 
big printed letters was handed round by 
the children : 


THE UNFAITHFUL LOVER 

A PLAY BY WILLIAM 

TO BE GIVEN IN THE 

PLAYROOM THEATRE 

ON 

JANUARY 4th, AT 2 O’CLOCK 

ALL ARE CORDIALLY INVITED 


179 


CHAPTER XIV 


The Play 

O N the fourth of January, at two 
o’clock, the seats before the stage in 
the play-room were well filled. A falsetto 
voice called out in the audience : 

“Peanuts and candy ! Peanuts and 
candy!” 

“Please, papa,” in a coaxing tone from 
behind the curtain, “don’t make fun. Take 
our play seriously.” 

“Why, my little girl, nothing is farther 
from my mind than ‘making fun.’ Boys 
always call out ‘peanuts and candy’ in the 
gallery, you know, and that makes it like 
a real theatre.” 

After a good deal of pounding, whisper- 
ing, and creaking of the boards of the 
stage, the curtain was pulled aside, and 
disclosed what was supposed to be a room 
in a King’s palace, the only evidence of 
which was a throne at the back. 

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The King and Queen — William and All 
Heart — appropriately arrayed, walked 
slowly in, followed by a boy friend, 
dressed as a Prince, with cap and long 
plume and gaudy cape covered with 
spangles. 

The King mounted the throne with dig- 
nity, and the Queen stood by, gazing out 
into the audience, trying to suppress a 
smile. 

The King spoke, turning to the Prince : 

The King: “Prince Charming, my daugh- 
ter is yours. The marriage will be 
held in a week. Whatever her desires 
may be, her father’s wish is to be ful- 
filled, and she will become the wife of 
Prince Charming.” 

Prince (bowing) : “I feel. Your Royal 
Highness, the greatest joy and gain is 
mine. I long have loved your beau- 
tiful daughter, and shall do all that 
is in my power to make her happy.” 

Queen: I fear you will find it hard to win 
my daughter’s love, for she is fool- 
ishly giving her heart to another 
man.” 

King: “Aye, and one whose place in the 
world is in the barn, among the cows. 

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But she shall be humbled and given 
you in marriage.” 

The King then descended from the 
throne and stalked back and forth. No 
one said anything for a minute or two, 
and then came a loud whisper from be- 
hind the scenes, “Go on, Anne, it’s your 
turn now.” 

Anne appeared in a long white gown 
trailing behind her, and girded round the 
waist by a gilt girdle. Her head was in 
the air, and she certainly did look defiant. 

King: “Come here, my daughter; this is 
your future husband. Prince, ap- 
proach the girl who is to become your 
wife.” 

The Prince, who had been gazing into 
the audience, instead of at the woman he 
adored, was startled into his duty by a 
loud whisper behind him, accompanied by 
a not gentle poke of a finger, “Don't look 
at the audience, look at the Princess.” 

He walked to Anne, and tried to take 
her hand, but she pulled it away, and held 
it above her head, saying dramatically: 

Princess: “I will not marry the Prince. 
He is not the man I love. I love the 
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OUR LITTLE PITCHERS 


milkman, and he — he only — will be 
my husband.” 

King: “Do you not think of duty, my 
child?” 

Princess: “Not when it comes to marry- 
ing.” 

Queen: “ ‘Children, obey your parents/ ” 

King: “Your first duty is to obey.” 

Princess: “I will marry the man I love, be 
he rich or be he poor.” 

King: “I will shut you up in a tower.” 

Princess: “You may shut me up in a 
tower — I’ll — I'll — I'll — ” 

“Get down by a rope ladder,” came 
a loud whisper from the prompter. 
“Get down by a rope ladder,” re- 
peated the Princess. 

Prince: “Can I not persuade you, my 
beautiful lady?” 

Princess (with a wave of her hand) : 
“Get thee gone!” 

King: “Then if you still persist in your 
obstinacy you go — go out into the 
world with your milkman lover, with 
nothing from me but the clothes you 
stand in.” 

The King stood with sceptre held high 
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OUR LITTLE PITCHERS 


in the air. The Queen hid her face in her 
hands. The Prince dropped on one knee, 
and tried hard to look sad. The Princess 
held her defiant attitude. And with this 
tableau the curtain was drawn on Act 
First. 


Act Second. 

The scenery : A wood composed of two 
trees, such as are used at Christmas time. 
Anne stands alone before them. 

Princess: “Here, alone, I await my lover. 
I wonder why he does not come. ,, 

Here Morgan entered, dressed in a suit 
of yellow cambric, a white cap on his head, 
carrying two milkpails. 

Milkman: “Ah, here you are, my much 
beloved, and now when will be the 
happy day?” 

Princess: “Any time I will go with you to 
your humble cottage.” 

Milkman: “What! your father, the King, 
will not receive me and make me his 
son!” 

Princess: “Alas, alas! He has driven me 
forth. The palace will hold me no 
more if I become a milkman’s wife. 

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But I love you and will go with you 
to poverty.” 

Milkman (lets the two pails drop with a 
clatter to the floor) : “And he will not 
take me to the palace. Then, lady, I 
cannot be your husband. I marry 
only to raise myself. Adieu, adieu, 
adieu !” 

He picks up the pails and walks 
slowly off the stage. 

Princess: “Oh, woe is me ! Oh, woe is me ! 
Oh, skies above and shining stars — 
and shining stars — shining stars — ” 

“Witness my distress,” came the 
voice of the prompter. 

“Witness my distress,” repeated 
Anne, with a troubled look on her 
face. Then came a painful pause. 
“Alone I am,” again called the voice 
of the unseen, and Anne went bravely 
on. 

“Alone I am, with these dense 
woods around me.” 

She sank in a faint, and the curtain was 
drawn on the second act. 

Act Third. 

Scene: The palace again. The King 
and Queen standing together, looking dis- 
consolate, with drooping heads. 

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King: “My child, my child! Oh, why were 
you so wilful. The sorrow you have 
caused us is killing us.” 

The King paced back and forth on the 
stage, a walk he had studied hard and 
was proud of; a long step forward on a 
bent knee, followed by a quick straighten- 
ing of the whole body. The Queen said 
nothing, but wrung her hands, and shook 
her head slowly back and forth. Anne 
appears, her gown torn and soiled, with 
bowed head. 

Princess: “Father, father, I return, your 
heartbroken, repentant daughter. My 
milkman lover loves me no more. I 
stand ready to marry the Prince.” 
King and Queen (together) : “Joy! Joy! 

Our daughter returns to her own.” 
King (calling in loud tones) : “Heralds! 
Heralds! Put wings on your feet. 
Proclaim to the town that our daugh- 
ter is back. And fetch Prince Charm- 
ing.” 

They wait. The King still continues his 
majestic walk, and in an incredibly short 
time the Prince comes in. 

King: “Prince, here is your future wife.” 

The Princess courtesys and smiles to the 
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Prince, who kneels, taking her hand, which 
he kisses. 

And the curtain is drawn amid loud 
applause. 


189 


CHAPTER XV 


The Twelfth Night Party 

T HE last day of the Christmas holidays 
arrived — the Feast of the Epiphany. 
The little cousins, Mary and Frank, and 
their parents came home from church 
with the Rector's family, and all joined 
in preparations for the big Twelfth Night 
party. 

When at eight o'clock the crowd of little 
people had assembled in the drawing-room, 
where the Christmas tree still stood in all 
its glory, they began the happy evening 
by joining their voices together in the 
sweet well-known Epiphany hymn : 

“We three kings of Orient are, 

Bearing gifts we traverse afar, 

Field and fountain, moor and mountain, 
Following yonder star." 

It was a beautiful sight to see fifty inno- 
cent children all singing with vigor and 
earnestness. And when the glorious chor- 
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us burst forth tears sprang to the eyes 
of the elders as they joined in: 

“Oh! star of wonder, star of night, 

Star with royal beauty bright, 

Westward leading, still proceeding, 

Lead us to Thy perfect light.” 

After the singing was over, the children 
walked, two by two, to the breakfast room, 
where a long table contained only two 
very large cakes. On one was a small doll, 
dressed as a queen, and the other held a 
tiny king. The boys formed round the 
king's cake, and the girls round the 
queen's. They all knew in one was a black 
bean, and in the other a white. And those 
who were the happy finders of the beans 
on their plates were the little majesties for 
the evening, and their commands all im- 
plicitly obeyed. 

Great was the excitement when the 
cakes were cut, and the pieces passed 
around. Everyone was really busier hunt- 
ing for the beans than eating. When they 
were found, and one little boy was pro- 
nounced king, and a girl queen, a loud 
cheer arose, and was followed by appetite 
for the cake. 


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The company marched upstairs to the 
tune of the “Coronation March,” headed 
by the new majesties. Folding doors were 
opened, and there stood a platform on 
which were two thrones, robes, and 
crowns, and sceptres all ready. Their ma- 
jesties were helped to their exalted posi- 
tions, and robed and crowned with great 
ceremony. 

It was noticed that the Rector often 
whispered into the ear of the king, during 
the evening — a most unceremonious per- 
formance — and that, very shortly after the 
whispering, a loud command followed, 
from his Royal Highness, preceded by a 
pounding of the sceptre on the platform, 
to insure silence. The first was : 

“Let a Punch and Judy show be 
brought.” 

Quick as a wink a huge, high box was 
brought in with the wicked Punch, his 
club, and many victims, which quite 
equaled the best in the streets of London. 
The children were delighted with the play, 
many of whom had never witnessed the 
like before. And all were so happy when 
the Devil killed the old murderer, Punch. 

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This removed, another mysterious word 
passed from the Rector to the king, who, 
pounding his sceptre three times at his 
feet, called out: 

“Let the chance-bag be brought.” 

And the tissue paper bag I have already 
described in the “Christmas party” was 
hung between the folding doors, and the 
same vain trials to strike the bag were 
made, amidst laughing and clapping of 
hands, until at last the good Rector was 
obliged to send the many little parcels 
flying in all directions and, the scrambling 
over, the children sat on the floor, and 
opened their bundles. The king and queen, 
you may be sure, were not shut out in the 
cold. The ever thoughtful and unselfish 
little wife of the Rector always had a big 
basket of parcels when the bag was struck, 
to throw to the wee children, who some- 
times could not get as many as the larger 
ones could, and the king and queen had 
many of these placed at their feet. 

Little Anne was very disrespectful to 
the king, calling him “Robert” instead of 
“Your Majesty,” and for penance had to 
sell a string of fish, gold and silver, all 
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fastened to a stick. She played the part 
well, calling up and down the rooms and 
through the halls in a real fishermaid’s 
voice : 

“Fish for sale ! Fish for sale!’ ’ 

She sold them all, getting in return un- 
opened parcels from the chance-bag. 

The next command from the king was a 
“lottery without blanks.” The children 
formed in a line, and each had a number 
given him. The corresponding numbers 
were well shaken in a hat, and then drawn 
out one by one, and, when each was match- 
ed by its duplicate in the line, the face of 
the possessor beamed with joy over some 
pretty gift. 

By this time it was getting late, and 
supper was served. The king and queen 
ceremoniously led from their thrones and 
headed the procession downstairs. 

After the oysters, hot tea cakes, ice 
cream, cakes and candies were eaten, the 
last ceremony of the evening was begun. 
The tree was stripped of all its ornaments, 
and then was carefully lowered by strong 
hands, on the shoulders of the largest boys. 
Then out of the front door they bore it, 
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and down the steps and through the street, 
to the nearest avenue, shouting and sing- 
ing as they went. Sometimes on these 
occasions the tree would be placed upright 
against a shop door, but I think this par- 
ticular night it was thrown across a car 
track, a very wrong thing to do, I know; 
but then “boys will be boys.” They scam- 
pered back to the Rectory, dreading police- 
men more than cold, and were glad when 
the door was closed upon them. 

The empty green board floor, where the 
tree had stood twelve days, looked forlorn, 
and gave one a lonesome feeling. But the 
children knew that another twelve months 
would bring the past happiness over again, 
and they all joined heartily in singing, 
“Should auld acquaintance be forgot,” 
after which goodbys were said, and when 
the door closed on the last guest, with 
grateful, happy hearts the Little Pitchers 
sought their beds and sleep. 


Space limits me, or # I could tell much 
more of the funny actions and happy child- 
hood of these children : their summer on a 
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farm, seasons spent on Nantucket Island, 
the birthplace of their dear father, a year 
in Germany, etc. Perhaps some day you 
may hear of them again, so let us say “au 
revoir, but not goodby.” 


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OCT 8 1918 













